


somewhere called home

by Barrhorn



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, F/F, Fluff, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, chapters will be tagged individually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-11-02 19:23:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 24,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10951110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barrhorn/pseuds/Barrhorn
Summary: Or: a collection of (usually) unrelated short fics, warm ups, drabbles, prompts, whatever. Some will be cross posted from tumblr, some will be just in here. It's a mix!





	1. for the birds

One would expect the birds to come to Angela. The doctor, the angel, the woman known worldwide for her compassion and caring. Who welcomes everyone with a smile, treats them kindly, listens with patience. One would think the birds would flock to her, tickling her with their feathers and the gentle press of their feet, until her laughter is hidden beneath the quiet whir of wings.

But Angela is not a woman for sitting still. Her life has been a constant surge forward to better and brighter futures, to succeed, to push boundaries, to improve the world for all people. To Angela, time has always meant a race: to save the people she cares about, to save the world, to do so much before it is too late. Her quick mind is restless, and as she sits it shows in almost imperceptible movement, a twitch of her fingertips and a nod of her head. For a less dignified woman, such movement might be called fidgeting, but for the genius of Overwatch she is simply thinking.

But the birds feel that energy and though they land near her, though they steal seed from her hands in quick flights, they never stay for long.

Ah, but for Fareeha, the birds land in the soldier’s rough hands without hesitation, chirping to each other and settling their wings with a flutter. Her deep patience is a different sort, the disciplined confidence in herself that lets her meet all challenges equally. Her stillness is born of experience, drilled into her during basic training and while crammed into transports. Her leadership has never been about being the loudest voice; she radiates a calmness and a security that others gravitate to.

Even, it seems, a group of songbirds.

So it is that, rather than equally sharing attention, Fareeha has birds lined up on her hands and legs as they squabble for space, and Angela has several of the bolder ones in front of her, content to try their luck away from the crowd. When one warbler lands on Fareeha’s shoulder and pecks inquisitively at the ornament in her hair, it startles a laugh from her that sends the flock exploding into the air, flying in a circle and scolding her loudly before landing again, this time farther out and peering at her as if deciding if she’s still trustworthy.

She takes the opportunity to look over at Angela, who is smiling delightedly at her, and her answering smile only grows as she feels the first brush of feathers returning to her hands.


	2. cuddler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: Fareeha likes to cuddle, and Angela doesn't expect that.

Angela hesitates outside the door, worrying her lower lip as she glances down the hall toward her own room. Fareeha, eyes averted, had earlier invited her over for the evening. The plan had been for tea and some quiet, but then Lena had come in with something she blamed on a “training accident” and Angela had spent her evening picking glass out of her arm instead. She’d managed to send Fareeha a message and gotten back _a come by anyway when you’re done_ , so here she is, hours late and knowing that Fareeha must be asleep by now.

She almost turns away. But she opens the door and slips into the dark room because she knows that Fareeha made an effort to invite her over; the evidence of that is clear enough in the way the small table is set with cups and kettle. And she knows how Fareeha would look in the morning if she woke alone: the stiffness of her shoulders and the quiet understanding in her eyes. Certainly, Fareeha would understand, but that’s not what Angela wants. No soft apologies, no forgiveness, no “some other time then”.

Fareeha’s room is spartan enough that Angela can make her way over to the bed by memory and feel alone. As her eyes finally adjust to the darkness, she can make out where Fareeha is lying, blankets piled on top of her to keep out the winter chill. With one final moment of trepidation, Angela slips underneath the pile as well. Despite her best efforts, the bed is narrow enough that her leg brushes Fareeha’s, and Fareeha grumbles low in her throat and shifts at the cold touch. Angela starts to whisper an apology, resigning herself to her sliver of mattress until she warms up, when Fareeha reaches out and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her in close. Angela quickly finds herself pressed into Fareeha’s chest, her head against her shoulder, with Fareeha’s arm as a solid, comforting line across her back.

Cautiously, Angela drapes her arm over Fareeha and slowly relaxes into her embrace when she doesn’t flinch away. She closes her eyes and breathes in the smell of Fareeha’s shampoo, which is quickly becoming familiar. “Goodnight,” she murmurs, feeling Fareeha’s arm tighten around her for a moment, and that’s the last thing she remembers before sleep takes her over.

—

She wakes slowly to Fareeha’s hand rubbing small circles on her back, and she looks up into her soft smile. “I never took you for a cuddler,” she teases, rewarded with a soft huff.

“Just making sure you don’t let in any more cold air,” Fareeha says, pointedly pulling the covers up higher.

Laughing, Angela settles herself just a little bit closer. “I wasn’t complaining.”


	3. pun date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: Angela speaks for all of us

They meet in the afternoons, in summer when the sun still has hours left to go, in winter when the world is starting to fade into dusk. They meet after briefings and strategy sessions, after appointments and lab work, when their time is finally somewhat their own.

Being part of an organization dedicated to world peace that’s on call at all hours does not always leave them a lot of personal time.

So they meet in the Raptora and Valkyrie suits and take to the skies together. It’s training of sorts, flying together until it becomes instinct, until they can move together without words.

Fareeha excuses herself from her workout with Aleksandra, who laughs and smirks, showing all her teeth. “Enjoy your date,” she says as Fareeha shrugs off the teasing.

Angela waves farewell to Genji, pausing when he tips his head in the way that means he’s smiling under the face plate. “I’m glad you’re taking time to relax,” he says. “It’s important to be around those you care about.” She smiles back at him and denies nothing.

Their little training sessions - because that’s what they refer to them as officially - exist outside of the usual structure, the normal rules and regulations. They make up the schedule and the drills, and there’s no one else there to delay or inconvenience if they stop to watch the sky and its brilliantly painted colors. There’s no one there to witness or comment on the way Angela’s eyes linger on Fareeha instead of their flight path, or the way Fareeha guides Angela into each landing with outstretched hands that are totally unnecessary.

No one is there the night Fareeha miskeys the remote that controls the training bots, to see the horrified expression on Angela’s face as every bot aims skyward, to hear Fareeha yelp as the first of the electric charges hits her. They’re training bots - the shots are meant to sting, to be a painful reminder that this is not a game, but not to harm - but it still makes her heart race to see all the projectiles filling the air.

Fareeha is cursing as she fumbles for the remote, each shot making her hands spasm and preventing her from hitting the switch. Angela’s about to yell at her about trying to dodge more when she realizes that Fareeha is deliberately absorbing some of the hits to make it easier on Angela, and she’s about to yell at her about _that_ when the bots halt as one, their guns lowering and the lights of their targeting systems going dark.

Fareeha descends and Angela follows, hastening when she hears a choked noise from Fareeha, her mind worrying over each shot, wondering if they interfered with the Raptora systems, or triggered a convulsion-

She pulls off Fareeha’s helmet, and the soldier is instead trying to hold in her laughter.

Angela’s fingers smooth over her cheeks, thumbs touching the upturned corners of her mouth, reassuring herself more than Fareeha that everything is okay. And then she tweaks her nose, her own lips fighting back a smile.

“That was hilarious,” Fareeha says between chuckles.

“That was _awful_. Don’t do that again.”

“I don’t know. I had a shockingly good time.”

Groaning, Angela pretends to swat Fareeha’s pauldron. “I regret ever worrying about you.”

Fareeha grins, head tipping to one side as she looks Angela over. “And yet, you’re smiling.”

She can’t truthfully deny it, and so she doesn’t.


	4. welcome home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-Recall, established relationship

She’d escaped the hospital earlier than usual, assuaging her guilt over the lost (over)time by bringing paperwork home with her. Not patient records, of course not, but evaluations, reports, budgets - all of the messy, administrative parts of being head of surgery. All the things that she had a hard time concentrating on while at the hospital, because there was always some emergency, some young doctor with a question, some life to save, something more important than _paperwork_ …

But her ability to better focus at home isn’t why Angela is currently curled up on her couch, the cushions next to her and table in front of her covered in several scattered files. Not the main reason, at least.

The main reason is the scrape of a key in the lock that has Angela’s head shooting up, paperwork momentarily forgotten as the front door opens and for the third time ever Fareeha Amari lets herself into Angela’s apartment.

(The first time had been right after Angela gave her the key, when she’d smiled shyly up into Fareeha’s surprised and grateful eyes and had whispered that she couldn’t wait for Fareeha to use it.

And Fareeha had smirked at her, had kissed her, had slipped out the door before Angela could catch her breath.

She’d let herself back in, looking pleased with herself as Angela giggled and pressed herself forward against her girlfriend because the chief security officer of Helix International was such a dork.

The second time they were actually together, but Angela had yawned her way through dessert, had dozed during the car ride home, and Fareeha had one arm steady around her waist as they reached the door. Angela had dreaded the thought of digging through her purse for the keys, but she’d barely shifted when Fareeha’s hold on her had tightened.

“I’ve got this,” she’d murmured before unlocking the door and ushering Angela inside.

“I was so smart, giving you that,” Angela’d said as she kicked off her shoes, and Fareeha had laughed.

“You’re a genius,” she’d teased. “Now come to bed.”)

Now Fareeha is slipping inside with a smile, something soft and open and warm in her face as she looks to where Angela’s sitting, surrounded by work. “Hey,” she says.

“Hi,” Angela calls back, because it’s too soon for _welcome home_ , even if the words rise with suspicious ease in her throat.

Because Fareeha is walking toward her, is leaning down, is pausing and looking at her and saying, “May I?”

And Angela thinks that she could love this woman, who respects her and her work, who doesn’t assume that Angela’s text asking her to come over means that Angela will drop everything for her. Who doesn’t assume she has any claim to her or her time the way that the hospital staff can. “Please,” Angela answers softly, her eyes dipping to Fareeha’s lips as she tilts her face up for the kiss.

And it’s soft and gentle and wonderful, and she misses it immediately when Fareeha straightens.

“Come sit with me?” Angela offers, and she loves the way Fareeha smiles as she gestures to the paper strewn couch.

“Is there room for me?”

And it’s too soon for _always_ , so Angela tells her, “Of course. I’ll clean up while you change.” She rearranges her things while Fareeha walks into the bedroom and the single dresser drawer that awaits her there. By the time she returns, in pajama pants and a t-shirt, Angela’s cleared one side of the couch and is seated sideways in the middle, her feet against the opposite arm. “Not much longer,” she says. “Just one more report.”

Taking the open spot and winding her arm around Angela’s waist as Angela leans back into her shoulder, Fareeha kisses the back of her neck and picks up the book she’s been slowly working through. “Take your time,” she says. “Maybe I’ll actually get through another chapter tonight.”

Her complaint is tinged with laughter, however, and Angela preens a little at just how distracting Fareeha finds her before turning her attention back to the papers propped against her legs.

She tries not to think of the warmth seeping through her that isn’t just from where Fareeha’s body is pressed against hers. Because it’s really not a question of whether she can love her; it’s just a matter of how fast she’s falling for her.


	5. Destiny AU 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Destiny AU (this part was posted to tumblr)

Fareeha burns in her Light. She is a Titan of the last city, a Sunbreaker, a bright flame in the darkness, a beacon of protection and safety.

The Light shines in Angela. She is one of Ikora’s prized Warlocks, a Sunsinger whose radiant wings of flame are a true glory.

Together, they are magnificent. 

They often go on missions together, the third of their Fireteam rotating more often. Mostly they work with a Hunter named Lena, a Bladedancer who appears and disappears in flashes of blue light, whose constant laughter disguises a deadly hand with a gun. They are a formidable team in the Trials of Osiris: Fareeha plots their tactics and can adapt on the move to their opponents; Angela locks down areas with her grenades and is deadly when cornered; Lena flanks around and hits them when they least expect.

It was a plan that had worked perfectly the last time around: Fareeha and Angela held the group off in a corridor, and Fareeha had just heard one of them say, “Wait, didn’t they have a Hunter with th-“ before the telltale roar of Lena’s guns cut them off. They’d looked around the corner to see Lena doubled over with laughter, three sullen Ghosts protecting the remains of their Guardians. For weeks all one of them had to do was repeat that line to make Lena dissolve into giggles.

They work with Aleksandra, a Titan who specializes in defense, when they are sent against the Cabal. She ls loud and cheerful and makes every campsite on every planet feel welcoming. They work with quiet Satya, a Stormcaller who is an expert on the Vex. It’s whispered that she’s one of the Hidden, one of Ikora’s spies, but that’s all the more reason to not question the assignments they are given with her. They work with Jesse, whose kindness cannot soften the way his skill with his Golden Gun makes Fareeha miss her mother.

They work with Mei on research missions where not much danger is expected, and though she and Angela talk enthusiastically, sometimes Fareeha catches her staring off into the sky with a distant look in her eyes. Fareeha glances at the pieces of Ahamkara bones that Mei wears, and wonders just what they whisper to her.

—

Ana turns the corner and there Fareeha is: the familiar broad shoulders and the jet black hair marking her even from the back. But Ana’s eye is drawn instantly to the mark hanging neatly off her belt, the lighter cloth standing out from the gleaming navy blue of Fareeha’s armor. The golden falcon sits high on her hip, watching over the blue sky that falls underneath it; the same falcon that used to sit squarely between Ana’s shoulders. The old saying comes back to her:

_When an old Hunter wears a simple cloak, ask yourself where she got it, and what the cloth remembers._

Ana remembers the cloak, abandoned along with her broken rifle and shattered bits of her Ghost, left so the other Guardians would know that she was gone, even if not in the way they thought.

But Fareeha has taken it, has cut off the bloodied hood and sewn up the tattered edges and made it her own. Ana’s falcon on Ana’s daughter. She’s never felt so much pride, nor so much grief.

—

Sometimes Angela’s fingers drift across the elaborate engravings of Fareeha’s chest plate, and she looks up and calls her “young wolf” just to see Fareeha’s pleased flush even as she huffs about the title.

Sometimes Fareeha’s hand slips past Angela’s robes to rest on the smooth plane of her back, warm and present and reassuring. Sometimes she guards Angela from interruptions as she’s researching something, and sometimes it’s her own hands guiding Angela to bed.

Sometimes, they just fly together. Fareeha’s ship is built for speed and armor, Angela’s for maneuverability and quickness. They dart around each other and through asteroid fields, their comms nothing but laughter.

“I’m glad I found you,” their Ghosts tell them, and after they agree they can’t help but glance at each other.


	6. Destiny AU 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: more Destiny AU, Reinhardt and Angela discussing Fareeha

“Go ahead. Ask.”

Angela looks up at him out of the corner of her eye. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Reinhardt smiles indulgently, unaffected by her admittedly weak denial. “You’re a warlock, so you’re constantly questioning everything. You’d ask Fareeha if it wouldn’t hurt her, but instead you’re left trying to puzzle it out yourself. So ask.”

“Why did you make Fareeha an Iron Lord?” She asks it bluntly, not bothering to hedge her words with caveats or soften the question with all of Fareeha’s qualifications. Reinhardt knows them all as well as she does. And he knows how Angela feels about Fareeha. He won’t be insulted on her behalf.

He grins at her, obviously pleased that she followed his advice, and she watches how his expression softens as he looks to the forge, where Fareeha is working. Her armor is stripped in favor of a shirt and a leather apron, the muscles in her shoulders and arms on full display as she works in front of flame and anvil, hammering out a sword. It’s a rite of passage, both Reinhardt and Fareeha have told her, and Angela wonders how long it’s been since Reinhardt last saw someone working in here.

“Because of all the things that she is,” Reinhardt says, pulling Angela away from her thoughts. “Guardian, warrior, hero, protector. And she is a Titan, who embodies these things in a way that a Hunter cannot-“

Angela raises an eyebrow, sensing the direction that this conversation is about to take. Though she bites her tongue on her objection, allowing for an old Titan’s indulgence. Though they are all Guardians, Titans have always felt a special claim to the title of protector, of the last line of defense.

“-Her mother is also all of these things.” Reinhardt finishes. “And because of that, Fareeha, I believe, often feels like she cannot own them fully. That she will always be compared to her mother, if only because Ana was there first.”

“And Ana was never an Iron Lord,” Angela says when Reinhardt falls silent, both of them watching the woman in front of them.

Shaking his head, Reinhardt chuckles and runs his fingers over his beard. “No, not even if she wanted it. Ana worked well in a Fireteam. But she was always a Hunter at heart, a sniper, a lone wolf. She forged her own path, one that would be hard for anyone to follow.” Another brief pause, but Reinhardt shakes himself out of it before Angela can prompt him again. “Ana led because she could not follow.”

Still unaware of the two in the doorway, Fareeha places the sword back into the furnace and stretches, the fire playing over the scars that litter her skin. Angela knows the stories of a few of them, has been present for several others. She knows exactly what Fareeha is capable of. “But Fareeha is different.”

“Fareeha,” Reinhardt says, and Angela is surprised to hear the strength of the pride in his voice, “leads because she doesn’t know how else to exist. She can hold the line on her own until she falls as well as anyone, but she excels in a group. She shines in the front. She _is_ an Iron Lord, even if not everyone has seen it yet. But I have.”

“So have I,” Angela tells him quietly, and they share a look of understanding.

“She wears her mother’s mark,” Reinhardt continues, though they both glance at the empty space on Fareeha’s hip. “It is a good thing for all Guardians, to remember that heroes never truly die; that if we fall and cannot rise that our names and deeds will be remembered with honor. It is a good thing, for a Titan to honor a Hunter. We wear our own history, but we would not be here if it was just us alone.” He puts a hand on Angela’s shoulder, squeezing it with care to his strength, and she warms to the fondness in his eyes that is not just because she is Fareeha’s partner. “It is a good thing for all Guardians,” he repeats. “But not necessarily for her. She also needs to forge her own path. This, I hope, gives her the start of that.”

Angela leans into him. “She won’t rest until the Iron Lords are restored, you know.”

“I know. I am sorry to place some of my burden on her,” he says. “But I cannot wait to see what she makes of it.”

A shout draws their attention away, back to the forge, where Fareeha is standing, holding the sword up in the air, flames racing around the blade and Angela gasps, worried for the way the fire seems to reach for Fareeha’s hand. Until she realizes that the flames are not from the forge, but from Fareeha’s own Light, claiming the sword, filling it, joining it with her.

“She did it,” Angela whispers, and Reinhardt grins.

“And she will be marvelous.”


	7. praise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: where this gets the mature rating from
> 
> (I wanted to play around with Angela being into getting praised in bed and it turned into more of a backstory/character study type deal.)

Angela walks in a world of respect, of gratitude, of acclaim.

So she doesn’t understand why Fareeha’s voice undoes her so.

She doesn’t _object_ either, no, quite the opposite.

But Angela is a scientist and, at her core, a curious soul, and she likes having the answers to questions.

Because here’s the thing: Angela is famous across the globe. She was well respected in medical fields before Overwatch made Mercy a household name, before they put her face on posters and her compassion and soft laughter on talk shows. She’d felt guilty - still does, at times - for how she’d gone along with the propaganda, knowing that it was easy easy easy for them to sell blonde hair and blue eyes, a doctor, a prodigy, a genius. But she’d gone along with it because it’d made her life easier, because everyone had recognized Mercy in the field and had listened when she’d said she needed them to evacuate, when she’d needed them to listen as she set up triage, when she’d called that she needed clean water and bandages _now._ People had listened because she had - because Overwatch had - already established that trust.

Sometimes, however, she wasn’t sure that was such a good thing. To always walk into a room or a disaster already known as the miracle-worker, the savior, the angel. Because she couldn’t always succeed. Because sometimes she had to walk away from someone’s son or daughter, friend or parent, failure crushing the air from her lungs, only to hear, “I know you did the best you could.”

(She heard it as “You couldn’t do it.”)

“I’m glad it was you,” they said sometimes. “I know that he got the best possible care.”

(Angela didn’t know that. How can she be so sure, as they were, that she didn’t miss something? That someone else would’ve seen what she had, done what she did. She forced herself to eat and sleep, to be as prepared as possible, but after five days in a war zone there was no way she could be as alert and prepared as she was at her best.)

(It didn’t matter that there was no one else. It was still her failure.)

Even after the fall of Overwatch, even when the world was picking them apart piece by piece, she somehow escaped mostly unscathed. Because she was Mercy, the one who saved lives, the one who shared her inventions with the rest of the world, the one who tried to keep it all together. Even though she’d wanted the blame. Maybe if the world had been as angry with her as with the rest of the organization, she wouldn’t have had so much rage at herself build up in her chest. Maybe if the world had demanded it of her, she could’ve made amends, enough to satisfy even her own gnawing guilt.

Instead, instead, she threw herself into her work, and she was welcomed everywhere. There was never a shortage of need for her talents, never a place unwilling to embrace her wholeheartedly. She stopped giving guest lectures for some time because it was too difficult to look out over a sea of admiring faces, too hard to listen to someone introduce her as brilliant, as world-changing, as heroic.

It only made her hurt more.

And then there was Fareeha.

Fareeha had hurt too, when Angela first saw her. Fareeha, achingly beautiful, a familiar pride written in her bearing, an even more familiar tattoo curled under her eye. 

Fareeha Amari, daughter of a woman Angela had failed to save.

(Failed to save her and her organization. Failed Morrison and Reyes, her two closest friends. She had failed Ana Amari, in every way possible.)

And oh, how it had hurt when Fareeha had said there was nothing to forgive.

(This makes more sense later, when Angela discovers Ana’s survival and life as the Shrike. She understands better why Fareeha had refused to look her in the eyes when she’d said that Ana had always made her own choices, and that no one else was responsible for that.)

But the hurt didn’t last long. It couldn’t survive Fareeha’s genuine care and thoughtfulness, or the thrill that ran through Angela when she searched out Fareeha’s eyes and saw her already looking back. Couldn’t survive Fareeha’s grin whenever she caught Angela staring first, or the quiet words that Fareeha would murmur into her ear in passing. Especially that last one. Because the first time Fareeha leaned over and spoke, her breath ghosting over Angela’s skin, Angela had tensed, had unsuccessfully fought the flush that rose in her cheeks and that rose even higher when Fareeha noticed her reaction. Angela had taken one look at Fareeha’s arched eyebrow and sly smirk and had just known that she was in trouble.

Sure enough, Fareeha had started doing it more often. Jokes murmured in passing when they were both supposed to be working, or little comments and pieces of advice when one of Fareeha’s soldiers was being particularly difficult.

An invitation to dinner.

That particular brand of teasing eased slightly as they began to date. Perhaps because Fareeha’s low voice now soothes her after long, stressful days or upon waking from a nightmare. Perhaps because Fareeha is being kind, now that her whispered promises have more weight to them. Or maybe Fareeha just wants to save that kind of teasing for when Angela loves it most.

Because Angela cannot forget the first night it happened, several months into their relationship. They were in bed, topless, when Fareeha suddenly paused above her, hands planted on either side of Angela’s shoulders. “You’re so beautiful,” she said quietly, and the words sent electricity down Angela’s spine, made her arch up off the bed. Embarrassed by her reaction, Angela looked away until Fareeha ducked her head to make eye contact, and everything in her face said that Angela was safe, everything in the light touch of her cheek said that Angela was cherished, everything in the quickening of breath said that Fareeha was similarly turned on.

“Do you like that?” Fareeha asked, seeking confirmation though Angela was sure she knew the answer.

Angela forced herself not to look away again as she nodded. And then, when Fareeha only raised an eyebrow at her, flushed. “Yes,” she managed.

Fareeha lowered herself slowly, resting her weight on her forearms before pressing a kiss to Angela’s ear. “Good girl,” she murmured, and Angela actually whimpered, hands clutching at Fareeha’s back, trying to pull her down the last inch that separated them. “I want to know everything you like.” Fareeha nipped at her earlobe, and Angela forgot everything that wasn’t the woman in front of her.

It’s not usually a focus between them, though Fareeha is always generous, always giving, always telling Angela how beautiful she is or how much she loves her. But on some nights Fareeha will push Angela’s hand away from her mouth with a whispered, “Don’t, please. I love hearing how good you feel.”

Or, “Be good for me and take this off. Let me see you, gorgeous.”

Or one night, when they’re teasingly jockeying for position, laughing as they roll each other over, each insisting that they take care of the other first; that night Fareeha threads her fingers through Angela’s hair, holds her close and sighs, “Yes, just like that. You make me feel so good.” 

And Angela tenses as a shiver runs through her, presses an open mouthed kiss to Fareeha’s skin to hide her moan, and Fareeha laughs as she flips Angela onto her back, nuzzling into her collarbone. “Not fair,” Angela complains, but she’s smoothing a hand over Fareeha’s cheek, thumb caressing the corner of her lips, now quirked up in a smile.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Fareeha promises, eyes gleaming up at her. And Angela lets her do just that.


	8. sign language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: a little bit more regarding their sign language from falling is like this
> 
> (the only thing you need to know from that story is that Angela and Fareeha came up with their own sign language in order to communicate more effectively in the air during missions)

When she’d first thought of it, Angela hadn’t anticipated just how often they would use the sign language. Or, more accurately, all the different ways they would use it.

Of course they use it in the field, in the air, faster and clearer than shouting out their intentions. Angela pointing out a group of reinforcements pouring out of a building, Fareeha indicating the evasive maneuvers that Angela needed to follow. A hand flashing past a rocket launcher calling out a position, Angela tucking her staff under her arm so she can use both hands to convey everything as fast as possible.

And it is fast. It makes them better, makes them quicker, makes them a more ferocious force in the air.

It makes them quieter, even when Fareeha chafes at having to move in her armor across the ground, the weight of the Raptora pressing heavily against her limbs. She’ll be more sore than usual later, and Angela reminds herself to check in with her after the mission, even as they creep through the hideout, communicating by signal only as they clear each room.

Because they use in the watch point. And yes, they use it during briefings, when Jack gives them their own assignment, ignoring how the others argue as they discuss west vs. north, sight lines vs. available cover. Their hands fly in front of them, never noticing how the others occasionally glance their way with a smile, or give each other a nudge to see how relaxed the pair are. Fareeha’s movements go slow and somehow teasing, and Angela fights back a smile, and Lena wants to cheer about how damn happy the doctor looks.

So of course they use it for the practical, businesslike reasons that they invented it in the first place.

But Angela also uses it after long, difficult days, when she drags herself back to one of their rooms exhausted. The first time she uses it because her throat is sore and her voice almost gone after shouting orders and dosages and directions, after soothing the injured as they wake up disoriented and afraid. The second time she’d been holding silent vigil for Jesse as he fought through his injuries, and it only felt like she could breathe again when he took his first deep breath since being wounded. And then Angela discovered that sometimes she just likes using her hands instead. Likes the simplicity of it.

She likes coming back home and being able to change into pajamas and sign, _I’m alright_.

To crawl into bed with a _come here_.

 _Cover me_ she signs, not knowing how else to ask, and Fareeha chuckles as she lays down next to Angela, curling an arm around her and pulling her close.

“We may need to add some words later, or I’m going to end up doing something inappropriate on a battlefield.”

Though she’s not able to laugh yet, Angela presses a kiss to Fareeha’s palm, grateful for her understanding, for her comfort, for her love.

Fareeha likes to tease the others with it. Hana comes up to her one morning to ask a question, and Fareeha shoves an entire pastry into her mouth in two bites, making a big show of how hard it is to chew while waving her hands about. Only Angela recognizes that Fareeha’s signing words at random, but everyone laughs at the way Hana huffs and rolls her eyes and decides that maybe her question can wait after all.

None of the others ever ask to learn. Maybe they know that this is one thing neither Angela nor Fareeha would be willing to teach. Because it is theirs and theirs alone, and the intimacy in it is not so easily sacrificed.

Even as it sneaks into their everyday lives. Even when they are at the store together because there’s been no mission for a week and if Fareeha doesn’t do something she’ll explode, and if she polishes the Raptora one more time she swears she’ll start wearing through the metal plating. So here they are, running errands together as if they aren’t international heroes (and potentially outlaws, depending on how strictly anyone intends on enforcing the Petras act).

And when Angela gets a phone call from the watchpoint, Fareeha immediately stops and watches her because if a mission came through literally twenty minutes after they finally left base-

But Angela notes her attention, the stiffness of her shoulders and the clarity of her eyes, and shakes her head with a smile. _I’m following you,_ she signs as she listens to the other voice on the line, and Fareeha sighs and continues to pick through vegetables, because someone has to make sure that Overwatch eats something other than frozen food and peanut butter.

She listens with half an ear to Angela’s side of the conversation, as their friends try to convince the pair to pick up their favorites while they’re out. And she keeps up her own silent running commentary that has Angela stifling laughter on more than one occasion and once lightly swatting her arm in reprimand as she catches a hint of Winston’s booming voice and just sweeps the entire shelf of peanut butter into the cart.

She thinks it’s worth having to put every jar back for the brightness of Angela’s eyes.


	9. gestures big and small

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some of the ways they love each other

Everyone notices when it’s Fareeha.

It’s hard not to, when they bump into Fareeha in the halls, Angela passed out in her arms, her head tucked against Fareeha’s shoulder. They don’t say anything then, not wanting to wake the doctor who is finally sleeping, but they smile and they clasp Fareeha’s other shoulder and the soldier just nods and continues carrying the doctor back to her room.

(When Jesse had tried that once, Angela had woken instantly and read him the riot act, loudly enough that no one had ever attempted it again. Apparently no one had given Fareeha that memo.)

It’s hard not to notice how Angela actually seems to be in the mess hall at meal times, even when she picks at her food at first until the first bite seems to reawaken her appetite. And it’s Lucio who, after teasing Fareeha about the amount of food on her plate, sees how some of it sneaks over to Angela’s side of the table, as if one meal had to stand in for two. He wonders if Angela even realizes when she rises and absently takes the orange along with her, or later when he sees her absentmindedly eating it at her desk, eyes never leaving the lab work displayed on her screen.

It’s impossible to _not_ notice on the battlefield with how obvious Pharah is in her gleaming armor, the sound of her engines a comforting background noise between the explosions of her rockets. It’s impossible to miss the way she swoops down or how Mercy rises to meet her, above the dust and the danger, how Pharah is always there almost as soon as Mercy calls for assistance.

What they don’t notice, amidst the chaos and the shouting, are the moments on rooftops when the pair have ducked into cover, concealing themselves from sight. When Mercy tends to Pharah’s wounds, when she checks her eyes for signs of a concussion, when she finishes and reports the team’s current status so Pharah knows who to reinforce and who to relieve.

What no one notices, because Fareeha is one of the first awake in the watch point and because she likes to go to the gym early before anyone else, is how Angela will stop by, lean against the doorway, and watch for a few minutes. Some days her presence is only shown in the full bottle of water left next to Fareeha’s half empty one. Some bad mornings when Fareeha is working on the punching bag Angela walks over, interrupting her and smoothing her fingers over the back of Fareeha’s hands, inspecting the broken skin in her knuckles. And she doesn’t press, not here, not yet, just dabs some nanite ointment on the injuries and kisses each palm.

By the time they reach the mess hall for breakfast, Fareeha’s hands are healed and whole, with nothing left to show what had been there ten minutes before.

What no one notices, because it only happens in the privacy of their quarters, is the aftermath of one of Fareeha and Ana’s confrontations. They don’t happen often, but the Amaris are both stubborn and strong willed, and old wounds and older habits occasionally flare back to life between them.

So Angela is there, when Fareeha storms back into their room, never slamming the door even as her fingers curl into fists and she spits curses through her teeth. And Angela listens, and Angela waits, and Angela holds her arms out when Fareeha falters and Fareeha chokes, and she cradles her girlfriend’s head to her chest and holds her. Because Fareeha is so, so strong and has such a big, big heart. And the love between the Amaris is unmistakeable but that doesn’t make it easy and it doesn’t make it simple. So Angela runs her fingers through Fareeha’s hair and tells her that it’s okay that it hurts, that it’s okay that she gets angry, that it’s okay, that she’s okay.

In the morning Fareeha walks out of their room with her head high and her eyes clear, and even if their conversation is stilted in the beginning, at least she and Ana are talking again.

And the others have only ever know Captain Fareeha Amari, Security Chief, hero. Of course she meets everything squarely. Of course she confronts matters rather than letting them fester. Of course she reaches out and tries to solve the problem.

But Ana recalls, with great clarity, how Fareeha was as a teenager, and though of course her daughter has grown and it may not be fair to compare her to then, she knows that Fareeha would’ve avoided her for several days after an argument like that.

So when Angela pokes her head into the room to check on them, Ana nods to her over Fareeha’s shoulder. Because she notices the way that Fareeha smiles at her. Because she sees the way Angela lights up at the sight of them together.

Because the love between them is unmistakeable, and what more could Ana ask for her daughter?


	10. mechaqueen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based off of [this art](http://about92bleachedrainbows.tumblr.com/post/161221639140/sometimes-i-hc-that-pharahs-mechaqueen-skin-turns) by about92bleachedrainbows and [this followup](https://patternedclouds.tumblr.com/post/161224337000/about92bleachedrainbows-sometimes-i-hc-that) by patternedclouds
> 
> angst with a happy ending

Zenyatta tells her it’s done and Angela just nods her acceptance. If it were for anyone else, Angela would have a thousand questions; after all, his knowledge might somehow improve her own healing abilities. Because Angela can revive people, yes, but only within a short window. And she knows that people can survive even with their heart stopped, even with no oxygen getting to their brain. She’s seen too many patients in too many hospitals come back from being “dead” for it to seem like such a hard and fast line.

But that was for seconds. Minutes. Not hours or days.

Not a month.

A month since the mission where the Raptora went down, smoking and broken. A month of Fareeha’s body continuing to breathe, her heart beating, both with considerable amounts of help. Two weeks taken up with building her a new body, encasing precious arteries and organs in the best composites and alloys Overwatch can get their hands on. Two weeks spent more in the lab than the hospital wing, because doctors cannot work on their lovers and Angela’s hands started to shake every time she tried to set a piece in place.

A surgeon is judged by their hands, and Angela has some of the best in the world. Their sudden betrayal was just another major loss that she’s suffered.

So when Zenyatta leaves the room and pauses before passing by her, she stays silent instead of wanting to know just how this is possible.

Because if anyone could hold on for so long, it’s Fareeha.

Angela steps into the room cautiously, because it’s been two weeks since the body was completed, two weeks of the body breathing on its own, two weeks of the body waking up, two weeks of the body-

(She cannot bring herself to say Fareeha, not anymore, not after too many days of seeing nothing familiar in bright yellow eyes.)

(It’s been three days since Lena tried to soothe her and Angela broke down completely, sobbing that they’d made a mistake, that it wasn’t her, it wasn’t her, it wasn’t-)

She steps into the room because there’s the soft hum of machinery that signals that Far- that the body is waking up, and she grimaces at the slip in her thoughts. She tells herself that she doesn’t expect anything.

It’s a very difficult thing, to realize that she’s trying to convince herself not to have hope. And it makes her wonder just how lost she’ll be if Zenyatta was wrong.

So she stands by the bed, fingers twisted tightly together as yellow eyes flicker on. “Good morning,” she says, trying to be cheerful, hearing the waver in her voice. And as the eyes - as they have for two weeks - continue to stare past her, up at the ceiling, Angela feels herself start to crumble further. Swallowing tightly, she lets herself sag under the weight of her failure, bracing herself with her hands on the bed itself. It’s only the unrelenting dread settling in her stomach that keeps her from bolting the room.

Until she realizes that, for the first time, those eyes have looked over to meet hers. She freezes, searching the soft lights for anything recognizable, seeing (and faintly hearing the servos work as) the pupils dilate. Focusing. Focusing on her. And she wants to say something around the lump in her throat, but before she can-

“Angela?”

She shatters.

The voice isn’t the same, no, but it holds just as much concern as before.

The hands that wrap around her wrists aren’t as warm or as rough as they were, but they’re so damn gentle as they tug her closer, as if she’s precious.

The chest that she presses herself to isn’t as soft, but God, _God_ , her heart beats the same beneath it.

“Angela,” she hears again, and she’s being drawn upwards, her head tucked into the curve of a neck, an arm tight around her waist, the other hand in her hair. The way Fareeha always holds her when she’s upset.

And she’ll feel guilty for this later, for the single sob that escapes her, for the way she’s taking solace rather than giving it. But it’s Fareeha, _Fareeha_ , and the love in her embrace is exactly the same.


	11. blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or that soulmate au where you only see in color when you first meet/touch your soulmate

Angela’s 37 years old, and she’s figured that maybe it’s just not meant to be. Not everyone meets their soulmate, after all, and she’s been around the world multiple times and met thousands of people.

And her world is still made up of black and white and gray.

She manages, however. From little things like keeping her wardrobe simple to prevent her outfits from clashing to the more major aspect of having a nurse assistant who can tell her the colors of bruises and bile and anything else she might need in the course of treating someone.

Her nanotechnology and the Caduceus staff make that part a lot simpler, and it’s a relief that she doesn’t need to drag someone into the battlefield with her.

(She would never get over the guilt of putting someone’s soulmate in that kind of danger if anything were to happen.)

So Angela’s lived, researched, fought, accomplished - all without her soulmate, all without color. Honestly, she’s stopped looking for it, stopped jumping at every perceived hint in the corner of her eye. Until the day she walks into one of the watchpoint’s rooms looking for Winston and instead finds the last thing that she’s expecting.

Well, not that a pen is that unusual to find, but this one…

This one is _not_ in black or grey. This one is-

Slowly, she lowers herself onto the chair in front of the pen, her hand resting on the table to steady her descent but not touching the pen, not yet. She knows that the spot of color means that her soulmate is nearby, that he or she had held this pen. But her imagination isn’t caught by the idea that her soulmate, after so long, is almost certainly still in the same building as her. It’s a good thought, a thrilling thought, but right now she’s enraptured by _color._

Finally she reaches out and picks up the pen, twirling it gently between two fingers. The word OVERWATCH is printed on the side in black (to her eyes, at least), and she recognizes it as one of the official pens they’d gotten to give out to visitors and new recruits. And in that case-

After a brief hesitation, Angela pulls a stray piece of paper - an abandoned agenda that Winston had given out - over and places the pen tip down gently. After all, just because the cap of the pen is in color doesn’t mean the ink will be. And yet, as she slowly drags the nib down the page, what’s left behind is a line in pure, brilliant color.

It’s the most wonderful thing she’s seen in a long, long time.

Because it’s an official Overwatch pen, she knows that the ink must be blue. She remembers bickering and laughter from when Jack scolded Gabriel and Ana over the first batch of pens, that had apparently been in purples and greens and oranges. Then it had dissolved into an argument over whether the prank was more on those who had their soulmates and had their eyes assaulted by neon colors, or those without who had no idea what color they were writing their very official reports in.

After that, they’d only ever had blue and black pens. And since this ink isn’t black, then process of elimination means-

Angela sighs softly and doodles, without thought or intention. Just loops and swirls, shapes and straight lines because _blue_. She draws a caffeine molecule because Jesse had gotten her a coffee mug with it emblazoned on the side as a gag gift one year. She writes the last line of her thesis because she still hasn’t forgotten it after all these years.

But eventually the color fades, and Angela tucks the pen into the pocket of her lab coat, and, after a moment, folds up the paper and puts it in another pocket. Maybe to keep, maybe to throw away, but it seems like bad form to leave it laying around where anyone might find.

Still, now she needs to find Winston more urgently than before.

He’s in his lab, and she manages to check in with him first about the joint experiment they’ve been working on before adding, almost casually, “And how did the meeting go?”

“Fine,” he says. “They seem like a good group. The sort of people we can trust, both on the field and away from it.”

She nods, trying not to show her impatience with his deliberate speech, a trait of his she usually finds soothing. “Do you happen to remember who was sitting in the third seat on the left? They left something behind,” she adds hastily. Knowing that she just made herself look even more suspicious.

“Let me think,” is all Winston says, though he’s adjusting his glasses as he looks more closely at her. But despite his obvious curiosity, he’s too polite to pry. “I believe that was Lucio. He may be around the dining area; I left the group there after a quick tour of the facilities.”

“I’ll look for him there,” she says, just barely remembering to call out a “thank you!” as she turns and walks out the door. She’d glanced through all the folders on the potential new agents that they’d invited for a visit, and now she’s desperately trying to remember what she’d read. She recalls having a positive reaction, and that he had the potential of being assigned to her division (not that they had enough members for divisions anymore), but not much more at the moment.

She reaches the room of the kitchen before she remembers most of the details, but she does remember the tour promotional picture tucked inside the cover, which means she can pick him out in the small group easily.

Pausing in the doorway, Angela takes a moment to watch him with several of the others. He’s undeniably handsome, his grin easy and charming, his laughter contagious. And yet, she doesn’t seem to feel anything on first laying eyes on him in person. Of course, the color only comes when a person first touches their soulmate, but shouldn’t she feel something? Some shiver of anticipation or fate?

Before she can consider it further, the conversation lulls and people start breaking into smaller groups, and there’s really no better time to approach him. So Angela strides into the room, walking with an easy confidence that’s really more from years of practice than an accurate reflection of her feelings. “Lucio?” she asks politely as she gets near.

“That’s me!” he announces cheerfully and sticks out a hand in her direction. A usual greeting, when one touch can change a whole world. She hopes she doesn’t obviously brace herself as she takes his hand in her own, but all that happens is that warm fingers tighten gently around hers for a moment before releasing her, and she lets his hand slide away in a world of gray, gray, gray.

Oh.

“I’m Angela,” she manages, trying to calm the thoughts swirling through her head. “I hope we get the chance to work together in the future.”

“Definitely!” he says, his wide grin settling into something quieter as he tips his head, watching her. “Something else you needed?”

He suspects something, she thinks, or maybe just senses it. So she pulls out the pen and shows it to him, not quite offering it, not quite ready to let it go. “This was left by your seat after the meeting. I thought I’d return it.”

“Oh, that ain’t mine,” Lucio replies quickly, winking at her as he pulls a tablet out of his pocket. “I’m faster on this guy than with one of those. But let’s see…” The tilt of his head changes directions before he snaps his fingers. “Fareeha came and sat next to me afterwards and we talked for a bit. It’s probably hers.”

“Fareeha?” She definitely remembers that file.

“Mhmm. She’s right over there.”

Angela turns and finds Fareeha already looking back at the pair. She’s got her arms folded confidently across her chest, and when their eyes meet Fareeha just smiles knowingly at her. Yeah, Angela thinks as she excuses herself to Lucio, she feels it too.

Too busy debating how exactly she wants to broach this, Angela doesn’t get the chance to say anything before Fareeha is grinning, her hands still tucked securely away. “Winston gave us a tour around, and I kept seeing all these little spots of color all over the place. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that?”

Angela swiftly tucks the pen behind her ear and offers her now empty hand to Fareeha. “Maybe I do.”

Fareeha uncrosses her arms, and Angela holds her breath.

This time, the instant their fingers brush the world blooms into color, distracting her from the way Fareeha’s hand feels in her own. And it’s gorgeous and bright and wonderful, and frankly it makes her head hurt slightly to see. She looks back to Fareeha and laughs quietly when she notices. “Your shirt is blue,” she says, and Fareeha shakes her head as if to clear it before looking at her.

“Uh, yeah. Is that okay?”

Angela smiles. She’ll tell her later. “It’s lovely,” she tells her instead. “Blue looks good on you.”

And it does. It really, really does.


	12. trace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> immunetocaffeine asked for more of the soulmates/seeing in color AU, so here's a slightly more slow burnish type of take on it!

Really, they’re just teasing each other at this point.

After all, they’ve each waited over thirty years for this. A little while longer won’t hurt, now that they’ve found each other. Now that they know. Now that they’re certain.

Not that they were in the beginning.

Angela is the first one to notice, because Fareeha is all over the watchpoint and the doctor herself is infamous for staying in the lab all day. The first time is late one evening when she finally drags herself away from her work, collapsing on the couch with a sandwich as her hunger has finally made itself known. It takes her a while to notice, something that she will blame alternately on her exhaustion and the fact that the remote is mostly black anyway.

Mostly.

But when she shifts, pulling her feet up onto the couch next to her, that’s when she finally notices the way several of the buttons stand out in stark contrast to everything else: play, pause, stop. In three different colors, suddenly seeming so bright that she has no idea how she could’ve missed them before.

Laughing quietly to herself, Angela glides her fingertips over the buttons because she’d thought she’d been everywhere and seen everyone and suddenly here her soulmate is, living in the same space, winning control of the remote during movie night. She wishes suddenly she’d joined in earlier, when Jesse had said they were all gathering to celebrate the newest members. Maybe she would’ve noticed then. Or, at least, she would at least have a better idea of who it was now. Instead of it being the middle of the night, with her being the only one awake.

Well, she consoles herself. She’s spent a lifetime without knowing. What’s half a night more?

The next morning she pads into the kitchen for coffee and notices the drying rack is a riot of color; apparently her soulmate did the dishes that had been piling in the sink. She smiles to herself, and when she’s done with her second cup she washes her mug and places it in the rack herself, a piece of gray in between the rest.

She goes for a walk in the afternoon, trying to clear her head and rest her eyes when she spots the basketball, bright against the asphalt. So she detours from her usual route, walking over and picking it up, turning it over in her hands. She finds herself smiling, again, as she experimentally dribbles it, just standing in place, imagining her soulmate doing the same thing recently.

“Hey!” a voice calls out and Angela freezes, clutches the ball to her chest in surprise as she looks over and sees a woman striding over to her. She’s grinning widely, something that would normally ease the sudden tension that Angela’s feeling if her features weren’t so familiar, if the tattoo under her eye wasn’t so recognizable. “Do you play?” Fareeha Amari asks her, and Angela shakes her head.

“No,” she answers, because she hasn’t, has never, not really. Too busy in school, too busy in Overwatch, her hands too important to risk jamming or - heaven forbid - breaking a finger. And then she watches Fareeha’s smile flicker, watches her eyes drop to the ball in Angela’s hands as confusion draws her eyebrows together.

And Angela knows.

She offers the ball back to Fareeha, careful to not let their hands touch as Fareeha automatically takes it, then backs up a step. “I won’t keep you,” she says hastily. “I- thank you, for doing the dishes.”

Now Fareeha’s bewildered, hands absently tossing the ball back and forth as she clearly puzzles over Angela’s sudden behavior. “You’re welcome?”

Angela nods, then turns and hurries away because her soulmate is _Fareeha Amari_ and she doesn’t know what to do with that. So instead of laughing, instead of sighing, instead of grabbing Fareeha’s hands and throwing them both headfirst into this, she’ll go and bury herself in her work for a while. Because, after all, she lasted that half a night that she promised herself before. She can last a little longer.

—

In her defense, Fareeha was distracted. Dr. Ziegler - because of course Fareeha knows who she is, of course Fareeha recognizes her - is as beautiful as the posters made her out to be. And at first Fareeha was just excited to see her with the basketball, to think that maybe this was something that they could share. And then she’d gotten distracted by the basketball itself, wondering if its color hadn’t lightened from when she’d last held it, wondered if the color hadn’t changed somehow.

(Impossible to prove. Photos record colors as they really are, not how the photographer perceives them. But Fareeha’s convinced that it was somehow different, something other than just a shift in the afternoon sun. She trusts her instincts, and her instincts further insist that Angela is hiding something.)

And Fareeha’s never been content to wait for answers.

She’s not so rude as to follow Angela, not when the doctor clearly left her behind. But she can follow the one clue that Angela left her, and so Fareeha heads to the kitchen.

When she sees the bright mug, one that she definitely hadn’t washed herself, sitting among all the others, she thinks she knows what’s happening.

_Soulmates._

She leans a hip against the counter and runs a hand through her hair, curiosity and excitement warring with a sudden surge of dread in her stomach. The first two are easy to trace: the desire to know, to experience, to finally grasp something that Fareeha could never control. It’s the third that has her drawing a deep breath, calming herself, following the emotion that makes her tongue taste like bitter laughter.

Because of course, after years of standing on her own, of establishing herself as separate from her mother, _of course_ her soulmate is someone who knew Ana first.

(Of course Overwatch, her goal for so long, is also going to lead her to her soulmate. Fareeha has long known that the universe has a perverse sense of humor.)

Noise at the doorway makes her straighten, makes her pluck the mug easily from the rack as Lucio glides in, humming joyfully to himself. “Hey!” he greets her cheerfully, and Fareeha smiles back at him, holding the mug up.

“Hey,” she says back. “What color is this?”

He grins and nods, used to the question, glancing only briefly at her hands. “It’s red.”

“Thanks,” she says and walks swiftly out the door, still holding the mug, before Lucio can stop to think, to wonder, to ask. Because obviously Angela isn’t ready to just jump right into this any more than Fareeha is, but they should at least acknowledge what’s there.

She arrives at Angela’s lab sooner than she’d expected, and when she sees the doctor intent over her computer, Fareeha hesitates in the doorway. At first, she simply doesn’t want to intrude, doesn’t want to interrupt. And then she’s caught by the splashes of color she can see in the area; the way the keyboard stands out, the marks on a whiteboard against the far wall, equations and diagrams in clear, bold strokes. (Something that makes her smile to herself, that makes her wonder whether Angela’s handwriting is the usual doctorly scrawl or if her hand is always so sure.)

She shifts on her feet and that motion must catch Angela’s attention, the woman startling slightly as her head whips toward the door. Her wide eyes take in Fareeha before glancing at the mug dangling from one hand, then back up to Fareeha’s face.

“It’s red,” Fareeha says simply, trying to read the emotions that flicker across Angela’s face, too fast to comprehend. “Thought you might want to know.” She doesn’t expect Angela to actually care about the color of a mug. But that Fareeha can see it? That’s something she should definitely know.

And Angela turns her chair to face Fareeha more squarely, her hands twisting together in her lap. “Fareeha-“ she starts, then hesitates.

“It’s okay. If you don’t want to touch yet.” Fareeha shrugs a shoulder, feigning more nonchalance than she feels. Suddenly a pit had opened in her stomach, hoping that Angela wouldn’t reject her altogether. “After all, I hardly know you.”

_That_ gets a reaction. Angela’s eyebrow twitches up in - surprise? Irritation? And then she’s relaxing back into the chair, her eyes crinkling with laughter. “Then maybe we should change that.”

Fareeha just barely manages to restrain her grin. “Anything you prefer? Coffee, game of basketball, dangerous missions… dinner?”

Now Angela does laugh freely, gesturing to the mug still loosely dangling from Fareeha’s fingers. “Well, since you already have that…”

“I’ll be right back,” Fareeha promises, and strides eagerly back to the kitchen, filling Angela’s mug with coffee and her own with tea. Her return trip is made more carefully, trying not to spill anything, and this time Angela turns to her the moment her shadow falls across the doorway, as if she’d been waiting.

Fareeha puts the coffee down on the desk, rather than risk their fingers brushing by accident during the hand off, and pulls up a separate chair. And they talk, quietly, about the sugar packets that Angela has stashed at her desk, about the way Fareeha avoids caffeine after noon, about a hundred little things that have nothing to do with Overwatch or soulmates. And yet, it’s something that Fareeha can feel settling underneath her skin. A kind of comfort and understanding, a flash of pleasure whenever she gets Angela to laugh and the thrill when Angela tips her head to one side and says something unexpectedly teasing.

_Oh,_ she thinks when she finally leaves the lab and realizes how late it’s gotten. _So that’s what all the fuss is about._

—

So it all started with the best of intentions. But months pass and they do coffee, they do dinner, they do all sorts of missions together (Angela still declines the basketball invites), and they still carefully navigate the space between them, try to eliminate any chance of accidental touch.

Angela had resolved herself to the worst case scenario during one mission, when she’d needed to help support Fareeha’s shoulder as she examined a gunshot wound. “Not how I wanted this to happen,” she’d murmured, bracing herself to see Fareeha’s bright blood as her first true color. Turned out that contact needed to be skin to skin, and though the proximity made her skin tingle and her head buzz, she’d never felt so relieved to see grays.

Because though they are friends, though they are partners in the air, though they are each quietly convinced that the universe chose perfectly for them, the colors don’t seem so important anymore.

Well, not to see them all the time, that is.

Because it’s a comfort for Angela to walk through the watchpoint and see color everywhere. To wake at her desk and find a green blanket thrown over her shoulders with care. To walk into the hangar to visit Fareeha at her workbench, for Fareeha to be able to ask “hand me those pliers I was using?” and for Angela to know which ones she means because the handles gleam blue in her sight.

Because it’s a thrill when Angela finds a flower waiting for her on her keyboard, and she sits and smells it and smiles to think of Fareeha carefully cupping it in her hands until she’s sure that the color will remain.

(They do a few experiments, because Angela is nothing if not curious, and they discover how long it takes for color to seep into an object that they hold and how long it takes for the color to fade.)

Because Fareeha loves the small carved falcon that Angela brings her as a souvenir once, admiring the artistry in its wings until she notices the note: _Jesse says that the color of the stain matches your eyes._ And she laughs and looks at it and carries it with her for the rest of the day, and when she walks by Angela’s room she stops and knocks on the door. When Angela opens it for her, she holds the falcon out on one palm, and Angela stares at it and then up at Fareeha’s eyes, and Fareeha’s sure she’s never felt this much love for anyone.

Because they come back from a mission and Fareeha notices the way that Angela’s pistol shows whiter than usual and it only takes one look at Angela’s face to know that the blaster was in her hand far more often than she’d ever want. So she cajoles Angela into coming to her room and draws her a bath, leaving her to it while Fareeha makes dinner. She lays out some of her own clothes for Angela, and when the doctor emerges Fareeha’s breath catches at the sight of her in too-long shorts, with her nose tucked into the collar of an oversized sweatshirt.

“It smells like you,” Angela offers softly, almost shyly, and Fareeha doesn’t bother to hide her smile as she points to the plate that’s waiting for her. Because she might not be able to comfort her with touch, but that doesn’t mean she can’t show her love in other ways.

Because they’re in Angela’s room and Fareeha’s taking one of the ornaments out of her hair so that Angela can learn the color of that too. And they’re laughing and they’re teasing but Angela’s hands are suddenly up, stopping Fareeha, hovering carefully away from her skin even as Angela’s resolve wavers. “Can I,” she starts, and wets her lips, noticing how Fareeha’s eyes dart down to follow the motion. “Can I kiss you? Please?”

She has to ask. It’ll be the end of the game, the end of Lucio’s patient description of various colors and Jesse’s exasperated pleas for them to just touch already. And as much as she adores all those things, she thinks it’ll be worth it to be able to trace the line of Fareeha’s tattoo or to fall asleep in her arms.

“Yes,” Fareeha answers, and then she smirks. “Close your eyes.”

“Only if you close yours,” Angela shoots back, but her eyes are falling shut because she could live on the sound of Fareeha’s laughter alone but she’s never been as patient as people thought.

“Don’t worry,” Fareeha tells her softly. “They are.” And then fingers are running along her jaw and up her cheeks, guiding her to Fareeha’s lips as Angela’s own hands find Fareeha’s arms.

She has no idea if the rush of joy sweeping through her is normal for the first time soulmates touch or if it’s something she’s always going to feel when kissing Fareeha.

But she can’t wait to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> patternedclouds over on tumblr did a fantastic comic of Fareeha and Angela's discussion in her lab and you should really check it/her other art out: https://patternedclouds.tumblr.com/post/162415493825/did-you-know-a-certain-writer-named-barrhorn


	13. being eloquent is overrated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to write ace Angela for a while. Figured I should probably actually do it before the end of Pride month. So this is a little about that and a little about domestic rocket angel.

Angela sighs and rolls her shoulders as she steps out of the shower, quickly drying herself off with a towel and stiffly pulling on pajamas. The hot water hadn’t worked the way she’d hoped; she can still feel tension knotting her muscles. It hadn’t even been a particularly bad day, just one where little things continued to go wrong, never letting her get settled before something else barged through her office door.

(Literally, at one point, when Lena nearly fell face first into Angela’s desk after having pulled some of her stitches out.)

She walks through the bedroom to the door that leads to the main room of her quarters and pauses when she sees Fareeha sprawled on the couch, tapping away at her phone and apparently absorbed in whatever is taking place on the screen. Angela’s still not used to this easy almost domesticity, the way that Fareeha’s sudden appearance in her space (she must not have heard her come in over the sound of the shower) makes her feel warm and cared for instead of intruded upon.

She’d told herself that she didn’t need a relationship. That it was better, easier to be single. To not let herself get too entangled with someone when she might be called away at any moment. To not let herself get too attached to someone who might be torn from her without even a goodbye.

(Not again. Not ever again.)

And, if she was being completely honest with herself, to not have the conversation that she always dreaded when the subject of dating comes up. Always worried that she’ll disappoint somehow, that she won’t be enough.

(It wasn’t - she wasn’t - for one girlfriend, and Angela had thrown herself into work to distract herself from how much it had hurt. And then she just hadn’t had time for dating, and the idea had glimmered in the back of her mind then, that maybe this was just the way it should be.)

It wasn’t healthy, she knows, to have pushed herself down so much. But she is a _doctor_ and she is a _hero_ and there is so much more pain and suffering in the world than just hers. And it’s not fair to compare, she knows, but at least there is something she can do for others. She’s not so sure how she can heal herself.

And then she’d met Fareeha. And God, does Fareeha make her _want_.

Fareeha is beautiful. She’s confident enough in herself to make terrible jokes and laugh at them too. Angela had watched the way she’d bantered with Jesse and Lucio, the quiet intensity of her discussions with Zenyatta, the friendly rivalry in the gym with Aleksandra, the growing bond with Hana. She’d been so busy watching she almost didn’t notice the way Fareeha became a steadfast part of her own life, the gentle warmth with which she cared for her noticed most keenly when Fareeha was suddenly gone on assignment for two weeks.

But then she’d noticed - and how she’d noticed - when Fareeha returned, and their friendship had somehow changed in the absence. Or maybe Fareeha had always been flirting with her, and only now was Angela paying attention.

She’d almost wished she still didn’t notice, because Fareeha’s easy teasing made her blush and her brain stutter through three languages before she remembered the right word in English, and it made her quietly hope for more.

It had scared her.

But then Fareeha had called her beautiful, quietly, sincerely, with her eyes never leaving Angela’s own. And Angela had never been good at this, never been good at speaking about these sorts of things, never liked this conversation in the first place. “I’m ace,” she’d blurted out and, catching the surprise that flashed across Fareeha’s face, closed her eyes and braced herself. For the doubt and the questions and little comments that she usually got in return.

“I’m sorry,” Fareeha said, and Angela’s eyes flew back open, taking in the concern written in the lines around her mouth. “Have I been making you uncomfortable? I can stop-“

“No,” Angela’d interrupted her, a bit too quickly. “No. I just… thought you should know.”

There was a pause, and Angela was trying to decipher the way Fareeha’s looking at her, wondering what Fareeha’s reading in her expression in return. “Thank you,” the soldier finally said, “for telling me.”

Angela was sure she’d heard a lilt in Fareeha’s voice and wondered where that came from. “You’re welcome?” she’d said, hesitantly, not certain how to respond.

But it seemed that Fareeha wasn’t thrown by that either, and she’d smiled as she offered Angela her hand. That Angela understood, and she slipped her hand in Fareeha’s easily, with a quiet sigh. “For trusting me,” Fareeha had clarified, and then turned the conversation away from the topic.

(Angela asks her later about her reaction, and Fareeha laughs at the memory. “I figured it meant you were interested in me,” she explains. “That you’d thought about us in the context of dating, where I might need to know.” Her smile softens, grows fond as she presses a kiss to Angela’s head. “I was relieved that I had a chance with the pretty doctor.”)

It’s a funny memory now, several months into their relationship, but Angela’s still no good at talking about certain things. Still learning how to battle her own worries and to ask for what she wants.

“You’re lurking.” Fareeha’s teasing voice breaks Angela out of her thoughts.

“Just admiring the view,” Angela says, but even she can hear the exhaustion in her voice, and Fareeha leans back to look her over more closely.

“Long day?”

Angela hums an agreement, looking over at the couch and knowing that she’ll likely fall asleep if she settles down there, and that she’ll just wake up more sore than she is now. “Come to bed?” she asks quietly.

Rising with a loud pop of her knees that makes them both wince, Fareeha turns out the lights before joining Angela in the doorway. And Angela raises herself up to kiss her, because she loves it, loves the warmth of Fareeha’s hand against the back of her neck, drawing Angela closer and holding her steady. She loves the way Fareeha’s smile feels against her lips, or the soft sigh that escapes her when they pull away, and how it turns into quiet laughter as Angela nudges her with her nose.

And, just as strongly, she loves the way they move together. The seamless, unhesitant way they navigate the same space and the way Fareeha kisses the back of her neck and props her chin on Angela’s shoulder as she waits for her turn to brush her teeth at the sink.

Moments like these, watching Fareeha’s smile in the mirror, the old fear feels very small and very far away.

“Would you mind if I read for a little bit?” Fareeha asks as they climb into bed, and Angela shakes her head.

“Don’t let me get in your way,” she says even as she snuggles into Fareeha’s side, even as an arm wraps around her shoulders and fingers start to thread through her hair.

The soft stroke of Fareeha’s hand in her hair and the steady rise and fall of her chest under Angela’s hand start to lull her into sleep. Right up until Angela realizes that Fareeha’s turned off all but one of the lights for Angela’s sake.

“Gonna hurt your eyes,” she murmurs in protest.

“No more fussing, doctor,” Fareeha tells her softly, despite the edge of laughter to her voice. “Sleep. I’ll let you say ‘I told you so’ if I end up needing glasses.”

Angela had planned on objecting, but that unexpected visual makes her stop. And somewhere in the middle of her thoughts about what sort of frames would suit Fareeha best, the tension in her shoulders finally relents and she falls asleep. Feeling safe, feeling warm, feeling loved.


	14. not to be afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all the people who wanted more ace Angela. A bit more about intimacy and navigating it.

Angela thought it would be harder, take longer. Opening up to someone else after years, letting someone in after so much hurt.

She hadn’t counted on Fareeha.

To be fair to herself, she’s entering this relationship with a better understanding of who she is and where her boundaries are. She knows the importance of talking, even if she isn’t good at it, even if she isn’t entirely unafraid.

But she was expecting to carry most of that burden alone. They’re in Fareeha’s room, their kisses growing deeper as Angela pulls Fareeha closer, her hands fluttering between Fareeha’s cheeks and shoulders, trying to find a place to settle. Fareeha’s hands start to wander as well, sliding down to her waist, but then she pulls back, slightly breathless.

“Angela, wait,” she says, her tone soft enough, gentle enough, that Angela simply leans forward, rests her forehead against Fareeha’s chest. “I don’t want to push you into anything. So tell me-“

“Tell you if I want to stop,” Angela interrupts, hoping her voice doesn’t betray the sudden tightness in her throat. Here’s the part she hates, and she-

One of Fareeha’s hands moves to the small of her back, a comforting weight that stalls her spiraling thoughts. “Actually,” Fareeha says, “I was thinking you’d tell me when you want to keep going.”

Angela’s head jerks up in surprise, nearly knocking into Fareeha’s chin.

“That way you don’t have to say anything,” Fareeha explains after a pause, after she’s sure that Angela’s not ready to respond yet. “If I ask and you’re at all hesitant, you don’t have to say anything at all and I’ll stop.”

And Angela’s staring unabashedly, her mind whirling through the implications again. That Fareeha’s noticed already how difficult Angela can find it to speak when she knows she might disappoint (no matter how many times Fareeha’s already said that she isn’t - could never be - disappointed in Angela). That Fareeha, by committing to asking, is shouldering half the responsibility.

That Fareeha has changed the question so that Angela can say yes. Instead of always being the one who says no, stop, wait.

(If it’s what she needs, what she wants, there is no shame to it, she knows. But her ex had grown frustrated with the denials, with the silent shakes of Angela’s head or the hesitant steps back. It had been hard to not feel like she was somehow failing. That she was cold or distant or all the other things her ex had accused her of being.)

“Yes,” Angela says, because she can, because that’s what she wants in this moment, more than anything. “Yes, please, I’d like that.”

And Fareeha grins at her, joyful and alight, before her eyes spark with mischief. “Yes, you like the system, or yes you want me to-“

Angela stops her by kissing her, fingers threading together behind her neck to hold her close. “Yes to both,” she breathes against her lips. “Yes.”

—

She’s rinsing out her coffee mug, listening to Fareeha move about in the bedroom before she emerges, sleepily announcing, “I’m gonna shower.”

As Angela turns, she watches Fareeha swipe at her eyes with a knuckle, not even bothering with her sleep mussed hair. And a warmth rises in her chest that has nothing to do with the coffee she can still taste on her tongue, that has everything to do the woman in front of her and how she lets Angela see her in ways no else gets to, that has everything to do with how much Angela loves her. “Can I join you?” she asks quietly, and she’s answered by the way Fareeha straightens, by the smile on her lips.

“Yeah,” Fareeha says, and Angela brushes her fingers along Fareeha’s shoulder as she steps beside her, follows her into the bathroom.

They undress each other slowly, murmuring affections, asking each other as touches linger, answering with nods and laughter and kisses.

“You’re beautiful,” Angela says as Fareeha stretches down to turn on the water, admiring the fluid way she moves, the way her muscles play under her skin. Because it’s true, and she needs Fareeha to know it, to never doubt it.

Fareeha grins at her in return. “As are you,” she says and then enters the shower, yelping as the cold water hits her skin.

“Stoic,” Angela laughs, waiting patiently for the water to warm up. She’s never seen the appeal, even when Fareeha tells her how refreshing it is or how quickly it wakes her up. She much prefers to wake slowly.

“Hedonist,” Fareeha accuses gently, voice muffled behind the curtain, and Angela giggles at how well Fareeha knows her. After another minute, Fareeha pulls the curtain back and steps to the side, the signal that the water should be warm enough to meet Angela’s taste.

When she steps inside and twitches the curtain back into place, Angela sighs as the water rushes over her shoulders and back, enjoying it for a moment before lifting her eyes to Fareeha’s. “May I?” she says, gesturing to the shampoo bottle, and Fareeha hands it to her before leaning over, bracing herself against the wall so that Angela can reach better.

“And you call me the hedonist,” Angela teases as she squeezes shampoo in her hands and starts running them through Fareeha’s hair, her fingernails gently scratching along Fareeha’s scalp as Fareeha all but melts into her touch.

Fareeha hums a noncommittal response with her eyes closed, and Angela leans forward to kiss her nose. She laughs at Fareeha’s small, pleased smile and leans her back to rinse her hair out.

Fareeha returns the favor afterward, and Angela’s sure that they don’t save any water at all.

Lena raises an eyebrow at their matching wet hair and winks at her, and Angela realizes she doesn’t mind at all.

—

“Touch me,” she says, because she’s trying to be better about asking. Trying to be better about talking. Reminding herself that saying what she wants is also saying that she wants _Fareeha_. That she desires the closeness and the intimacy (and how she finds she desires them).

And that’s something that Fareeha should know, that she deserves to know.

Angela hopes she can love Fareeha as perfectly as Fareeha loves her.

Because Fareeha’s brushing her fingers over Angela’s cheek and tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Because Fareeha can read the nervousness that tenses Angela’s shoulders and is listening, is waiting, is so, so patient.

“Can I just- Can I just show you?” Angela asks.

“Yes,” Fareeha tells her, and “yes” again when Angela’s hands grasp the hem of Fareeha’s shirt and she looks up at her in question.

So Angela pulls Fareeha’s shirt off and just rests her fingertips against her stomach for a moment, feeling the muscles jump at the contact. And then she just lets her hand drift without purpose or aim, turning her hand over to let her fingernails ghost over the skin as well, enjoying the feeling of Fareeha’s skin until a hand comes up and covers her own, gently halting her.

“Got it,” Fareeha says softly, and Angela twines her fingers through Fareeha’s and tugs her over to the bed, releasing her only to strip off her own shirt and bra before lying on the bed on her stomach. She feels Fareeha settle on the bed next to her, fingers lightly tracing her spine, and Angela sighs into the touch. She hears Fareeha huff lightly, and though she’s sure she knows exactly what smile she’s wearing, she doesn’t try to look.

Instead she just enjoys the way Fareeha draws patterns across her skin and the way her fingers softly follow the lines of her shoulders. The way that Fareeha draws goosebumps from her and the way her fingers chase after them, soothing them and yet earning more as nails travel down her arms. The way Fareeha’s breath warms the back of her neck as Fareeha leans down, pausing and asking, “May I?” and the way she doesn’t laugh at Angela’s frantic nod and whispered:

“Please.”

And Fareeha kisses above every vertebrae, nuzzles into the spot between her shoulders, fingers dropping to dance almost ticklishly around Angela’s waist and sides and then back up, warm palms resting on her back, fingers splayed against skin as she steadies herself. Until Angela feels boneless, until she feels quiet, until she feels peaceful.

Until Angela rolls over enough to pull Fareeha down next to her and flutter kisses across her collarbones and chest. “I love you,” she murmurs next to her skin.

Because she’s not good at talking, but that’s an excellent place to start.


	15. strong enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So for Pharmercy appreciation week I wrote a piece of an XCOM AU (found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9709238/chapters/22002254)
> 
> This is a sort of follow up to that. You shouldn't need to have read the first one, but it might help!
> 
> (OR: I have feelings about Hana and her relationships with Fareeha and Angela)

Fareeha’s only walking past the dorm room when she hears voices, raised enough that she can hear their strident tones but not the actual words they’re saying. She has her suspicions, however, recognizing the rhythm of the louder voice and familiar with the tightness in the softer one, and she’s already turning toward the door when the latter rings out more clearly:

“I will _not_ MEC a _child_!”

Fareeha winces, knowing how Hana will take that, knowing how little control Angela must have left to actually let that slip, and pushes the door open immediately.

Just in time to hear Hana’s hissed, “But you had no problem with them chopping off Fareeha’s last arm.”

Her appearance - and her right arm stretched out in front of her, prosthetic fingers splayed against the metal of the door until she lets it fall closed behind her - silences the room, and Fareeha looks between the two women in front of her.

Hana’s mouth is twisted into a stubborn, unyielding frown, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. But her eyes are wide, surprised, _contrite_ , like she hadn’t realized what she was saying before the words tumbled from her mouth. Like she really hadn’t expected Fareeha to hear them, or for Angela to look so hurt by them.

And Angela opposite her, looking exhausted, looking strained, deep lines etched around her mouth and her shoulders sagging with all the weight that she carries and refuses to release. The familiar pain in her eyes as she glances at the arm and then up at Fareeha, like she’s wondering how she ever let this argument get so far, like she’s wondering how she could’ve possibly made things better.

“I’d ask what was going on,” Fareeha says, tone quiet but firm, “but I think most of the base has the general idea.”

Both of them are too proud to look away, too stubborn to flush with shame, but she can see a new hesitation in their stance, a slight crack in their defenses. And Fareeha feels a familiar ache in her heart, knowing just how high the walls the war has forced them to build are.

“They’re talking about creating another MEC suit,” Hana says quickly, though Angela seems content to let her have the first word. “And Angela refuses to consider me for the pilot position.”

“I never wanted the MEC program to go forward like this in the first place,” Angela says, the fire still in her voice even if it is more subdued now. “I’m not endorsing anyone.” She glances almost apologetically at Fareeha, who shrugs in response, remembering their conversation all too well.

Hana is not mollified at all. “You should at least agree that the pilot should volunteer! I am! And I don’t see a whole crowd of people lining up to do so.”

And there it is, the flash of realization that has Fareeha leaning backward, resting her shoulder against the closed door, unwilling to let Hana go easily without an answer. “Why are you volunteering?” she asks mildly, knowing that her face gives nothing away.

“Because I’m the best candidate,” Hana insists, turning to face Fareeha fully, eager to convince her. “I have more experience than almost anyone else; I’ve worked with you and know how the suit works best; it uses similar tactics as the MEKA drone, so I’ll have a really short learning curve.” She emphasizes each reason with a finger lifted into the air, counting them off.

Fareeha watches all of this with a slight frown, noticing the way that Angela’s watching _her_ , the doctor clearly having figured out that she’s driving towards something, though not what. “All that’s because you’re already an important part of the team,” she says, and sees Hana flinch.

When Hana reacts, when Hana looks down for a second, that’s when Fareeha reaches forward, touching Hana’s arm gently. “Talk to us, Hana. We’re listening.”

“I pilot a drone. I sit in base with my controls and my headset and base personnel laugh about it and keep track of my kills like it’s some… video game or something. And I play along and talk about it being too easy and call the aliens a bunch of noobs but-“ Hana pauses and takes a deep breath before looking up, meeting Fareeha’s eyes squarely. “I’m not out there. Not the way you guys are.” Her eyes drop again, to skim over Fareeha’s body, the bandages peeking out from under her shirt collar. “How is it fair? You get shot and you’re two weeks recovering. The MEKA gets shot and it’s no big deal. Jesse nearly died, and almost did so with a big ass robot standing over him instead of a person.”

The anguish in her voice is mirrored in Angela’s face, and Fareeha feels the same pain twist in her gut at the memory of how close they’d come to losing him. But she still steps back as Angela moves forward in her place, running her hand up and down Hana’s arm comfortingly, because if there’s anyone who understands the terror and grief of sending people out into harm’s way, it’s the doctor who will never be risked in the field.

“It’s not a game,” Hana insists quietly.

“We know,” Angela tells her, and looks over to Fareeha.

There’s the ghosts of old conversations in her eyes, the late night talks about Angela’s anger and fear, being forced to watch others risk themselves, trusting their lives to her inventions even if she couldn’t be out there. The stolen moments discussing their future and all the twists and turns it could take. The quiet shared daydreams about a future without war.

“We should tell her,” Angela says.

Hana looks between them. “Tell me what?” she asks, her tone wary, almost afraid.

“Hana,” Fareeha starts, folding her arms across her chest, setting her feet firmly. “When the worst happens or we get a signal we can’t identify - when we’re walking into the worst situations or a complete unknown, who do we send?”

“You. Reinhardt. Lena. Lucio. Jesse. And me.”

“Right. And so far we’ve handled all those situations. But what happens when we don’t? What happens when we can’t?” She watches the way Hana startles, though she doubts that it’s something Hana’s never considered. “When it’s something we’ve never seen before and our weapons don’t work? Something we’re not prepared for because it can level a city block in a second? What happens when it’s an ambush and the Skyranger goes down? When we get stranded far from home and unable to respond to an attack halfway across the world?” She takes a deep breath. “What happens when we lose the six best people we’ve got?”

Hana simply stares at her with wide eyes, at a loss for words for the first time since Fareeha’s known her.

So it’s Angela who answers. “We don’t. We lose five. Because you’re still here.” Hana’s head whips toward her, and Angela holds up a hand to stall the protest on her lips. “You’ve seen everything because you’ve been there. You know how to respond in dire situations because you’ve been in them. You’ve gotten into the worst of situations and you’ve gotten yourself out of them. In times of crisis, you keep a calm head and you lead others.”

“The commander does a good job handling the council,” Fareeha cuts in. “He makes all those big decisions about where we go and how to allocate our resources. But when it comes to the battlefield, and that split second decision that’ll save someone, the others listen for a different voice.”

“They listen to Fareeha, as you know,” Angela says softly. “But if she’s not there, they listen for yours.”

They pause together, exchange glances, having already said all the words to each other that they have to. Having already made all the promises that they can.

“I honestly believe,” Angela continues, and her voice trembles with fear and sadness and an awful sort of pride, “that if we lose you both, we lose the war.”

And Hana gapes at her, eyes wide and jaw slightly slack before she shakes her head. “I-“

“The team knows who you are,” Fareeha says. “I never doubt that you’re out there with me.” Maybe too much, she thinks at time, remembering times she’s returned to the base and sat with Hana, silent and still as they let go of all the things they’d seen. Of civilians dying and homes burning, of terror and blood and violence that they couldn’t prevent. It didn’t matter that Hana wasn’t there, that Fareeha was the only one showering to get the smell of smoke out of her hair.

“So please believe us when we say that we need you here,” Angela finishes. “Of course you’d be a great MEC pilot. But it would be a waste.”

Fareeha watches the way Hana bites her lip, her chin raising slightly, and knows that she’s thinking about what they said, that she’s considering it. And so she nudges her slightly, grins at her. “And hey, maybe we can get Torbjörn to modify the MEKA and you can ride along inside it instead.”

Angela sighs and rolls her eyes, and Hana relaxes enough to stick her tongue out at Fareeha. “You just don’t want the competition,” she says, and Fareeha winks at her in return.

The three stand together for a moment longer, letting the tension dissipate, the usual ease between them returning. But Hana looks between them with bright eyes and squeezes both their hands. “Thanks,” she says, and slips out the door first because she always needs time to gather herself before continuing this sort of discussion and because Fareeha and Angela never get enough time alone as is.

And Angela sighs again, her shoulders slumping as Fareeha wraps her arms around her. “Did we do the right thing, telling her?” she murmurs against her neck. “It’s a lot of pressure.”

“She’s strong enough,” Fareeha tells her, and knows the same could be said for all of them.


	16. pun intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> art imitating life

“Angela, you _gotta_ help me. I think I’m dying.”

“Hana,” Angela says without looking up, familiar with the overly dramatic tone that the younger woman is using, knowing that Hana is ever cool and composed in actual stressful situations, “you’re convinced you’re dying when the internet connection goes out.”

Hana groans from the doorway. “No, Doc. It’s Fareeha.”

A few months ago, Angela would’ve been embarrassed by the way that catches her attention, by Hana’s smirk as Angela’s eyes finally lift and look her way. Now she recognizes Hana’s teasing for what it is, understands the affection for them both that underlies it. “And what’s happening with Fareeha?”

“She’s _punning_ at me.”

Angela begins to return to her work when Hana darts over to her desk, slamming her palms down on the flat surface.

“Angela, please. I have work to do on the MEKA and I was complaining about missing a tool and she said ‘well that sounds like a real wrench in your plans’.” When she sees Angela flinch, she presses forward, “I told her to get out and she said the hangar was too small for her to get Pharah-way.” And as Angela hides her face in her hands, Hana adds, “I pleaded with her to stop and she said I should stop giving her so many o-pun-ings.”

“Oh my God,” Angela says.

“Your girlfriend’s gotta be stopped,” Hana insists, and Angela can’t help but smile at that term, still so new, both unfamiliar and completely right.

“Fine,” Angela says, pushing herself up. “Give me five minutes before you return to the hangar.”

Hana nods vigorously, giving Angela a thumbs up.

And Angela thinks that’s the last of it until she hears Hana calling down the hallway after her. “Keep it PG, okay? I work in there!”

—

Stepping inside the hangar, Angela pauses to watch Fareeha at work, leaning over a workbench and the Raptora pieces carefully lined up on it. She loves the care with which Fareeha inspects each piece, the quiet confidence in every movement, the precision with which she reassembles what she’s taken apart. And Angela feels herself relaxing and allows it, allows herself to smile as she remembers waking up this morning, remembers blankets tangled around her legs and an arm over her waist.

“Fareeha,” she calls out softly as she approaches, as soon as she’s sure that she won’t interrupt anything important or delicate.

And Fareeha turns just as Angela reaches her, just as Angela wraps her arms around Fareeha in a hug, making Fareeha lean back against the bench as Angela lets some of her weight fall onto her.

She hears Fareeha chuckle above her, feels her sneak a hand away to put down a tool before coming to rest between her shoulder blades. “Well hello.”

“Hi,” Angela murmurs into her neck. “I’m here to bribe you.”

Fareeha laughs more loudly this time. “Are you?”

“Your puns are sending people to the doctor. It’s my job to intervene at the source, not just treat the symptoms.”

“And what does your diagnosis say?”

Angela leans back just a little, just enough to tip her face up and look at Fareeha’s gentle smile, the small crease in the tattoo where the smile crinkles Fareeha’s eyes. “That puns are a reoccurring problem, and the person should be kept under observation for an hour or so.”

“By a trained professional, of course,” Fareeha teases.

“Of course.” Angela rises up to kiss the corner of Fareeha’s mouth, the one that curls up every time she’s thought of a pun and is biding her time to deliver it. “Come lay down with me? Please?” She thinks that Fareeha might object about the Raptora suit, might make some other comment about the bribery.

Instead Fareeha just grins, slowly pulling away from Angela and heading for the door. They walk the hallway hand in hand, and Hana winks at them as they pass by.

(When Fareeha’s mouth opens, Angela jostles her in the side with an elbow.)

They get to Angela’s quarters without further incident, and Angela draws Fareeha in after her, letting her hair down as they move toward the couch. Gently, she pushes Fareeha down first so that she’s half lying down, her back propped against the arm. Fareeha pulls her down after her, in between her legs, and Angela sighs as she settles her head back against Fareeha’s chest.

“Tired?” Fareeha asks quietly, and Angela nods. It _had_ been another early morning. “Do you want me to read to you?”

“Isn’t this supposed to be your bribe?” Angela murmurs, and her body shakes with Fareeha’s suppressed laughter.

An arm wraps itself around her, holding her close as Fareeha stretches, reaching back behind her for the book on the side table. “Believe me, this is my pleasure.”

Angela’s not going to argue. And with Fareeha’s warm voice in her ears, with the rise and fall of her chest in time with her words, Angela lets her eyes fall closed.

She’d feel guilty for dozing, but she can hear the smile in Fareeha’s voice.


	17. frostwitch (drabble)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> set after part 1 of in winter or: witch Angela reacts to the dropping temperature
> 
> based off of patternedclouds' piece here: https://patternedclouds.tumblr.com/post/163426490780/longing

She wakes to a chill in the air, and despite the pajamas, despite jamming her feet into slippers, Angela pulls on a robe for at least some warmth and then steps out the front door. Because out here the cool wind sweeps her sleep mussed hair out of her face, brushes against her cheeks, sends goosebumps rippling down her arms.

Angela never loved the cold. Not until last winter, and the woman she’d met in the snow.

In the summer it all seems like a dream, like some sort of cabin fever that manifested itself into a woman with kind eyes and loud laughter, with cool hands and a considerate heart.

If it was a dream, it was a wonderful sort of dream.

She’s never been one to take things on faith, either, and logic might dictate that Fareeha will not return to her small cottage in the coming months. There’s still so much that Angela doesn’t know; perhaps Fareeha has duties that will keep her away, or she’ll have decided that their time together was not worth the worry.

(For Angela well remembers the worry that hunched broad shoulders and darkened brown eyes, every time Fareeha had hesitated before coming near, fearing hurting her.)

And Angela’s been secluded, alone, for so long. It’d be natural to assume that the past winter was the exception, a glorious but temporary moment of connection. That then her life would continue on the way it had before.

It’d be logical to temper her expectations. To couch her thoughts of the future in “maybe”s and “if”s.

But there’s something in the wind that feels like a promise. Of the coming winter, and so much more.


	18. recall (drabble)

Angela’s not sure why she comes back at first. Overwatch was flawed and imperfect, and the fall was so, so painful. So many nights afterward spent wondering what signs she had missed, what she had neglected to do or say that could’ve eased the anger and averted catastrophe.

But there’s something in Winston’s broadcast that makes her hesitate, that makes her wonder if this time could be different. Could be better.

It doesn’t take long for her to realize that it is different. And it’s more than just the run down Watchpoints and the lack of funding and the fear of someone invoking the Petras act. It’s Hana and her streams and her banter with everyone regardless of rank or age. It’s Lucio and his boundless enthusiasm and good cheer. It’s Genji, so much calmer than he was years ago; Jesse, so much quieter but so much more sure; Lena-

Well, Lena hasn’t changed too much.

(And Angela is grateful for them all.)

They’re all looking forward to the future, and slowly, surely, the sins of Overwatch’s past slip from even her shoulders.

And the future shines the brightest in Fareeha’s eyes.

Fareeha, who was touched by the old Overwatch but not tainted by it. Fareeha, who shoulders the burden of command without thought and cedes the lead with grace.

Fareeha who, by virtue of shared early mornings and their in-air partnership, quietly becomes Angela’s closest friend at the watchpoint. Fareeha finds a place in Angela’s routine - in her life - so smoothly and so gently that Angela doesn’t even realize it until Fareeha returns to Helix for a week and Angela drinks her coffee while still glancing at the door.

One week later and Fareeha slides into the seat across from her, tea steaming in front of her and a tired smile on her face, and Angela asks after her Helix crew and listens intently, feeling her shoulders relax and her mind start to drift as she considers things she hasn’t in a long time.

Fareeha. The future. And hope.


	19. blanket negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fluff and a gentle bit of ace Angela

It takes a while for them to share a bed.

Because their rooms are so near each other, just two doors down, so there’s no “it’s too late for you to head home, just stay here instead” excuse.

Because Angela is in Greece on a mission and Fareeha is in Giza, working with Helix, and there simply is no bed to share.

Because the beds in the watchpoints are narrow, and Angela imagines that squeezing together in such a tight space is something for younger folks who get more sleep than Overwatch agents are usually afforded.

And because, though Angela wants to, though she surprises herself with how welcome the thought is, she is wary of the implications in such an invitation. How “sleeping together” is synonymous with sex, how all the pretty little euphemisms turn into landmines whenever she considers broaching the subject.

When she stops and breathes and makes herself think about it logically, she knows that Fareeha will not misinterpret her, that Fareeha understands things even when Angela struggles to put them into words, that Fareeha listens without any sort of impatience. It makes the tightness in her chest ease, lets air into her lungs more easily. But the calmness only comes with the pausing, otherwise it sits in the back of her mind as a low throb of anxiety.

(She thinks her teammates’ teasing when they’re first discovered leaving each other’s rooms in the morning will be easier to handle, because she doesn’t have to say anything at all to them.)

Until it happens by accident. For all of Fareeha’s chiding her for her sleep habits, it’s Fareeha herself who ends up dozing on the common room couch as everyone watches the latest film that Hana cameos in. Angela doesn’t realize right away, not until she realizes that the little comments that Fareeha was tossing at the screen or murmuring in her ear have stopped. And then she notices how heavy the arm draped around her shoulders has become, how deep and even Fareeha’s breaths are.

She leans a little more into Fareeha’s side, stilling when Fareeha mumbles something indistinct. But her girlfriend doesn’t stir again, and Angela relaxes, tucking her head more securely against Fareeha’s shoulder, her eyes on the screen but her smile for the woman next to her.

Admittedly, her attention splits between the movie and Fareeha, the steady warmth under her cheek distracting her from the quiet conversations onscreen, the explosions and action sequences prompting her to soothe the sleeping soldier with a few murmured words or her thumb tracing circles on her leg. Hana _finally_ shows up on screen, her appearance eliciting a round of applause, cheering, and running commentary from the crowd (because they all know what Hana wants from them).

And Fareeha sighs and shifts, turning her head into Angela’s. “I missed it,” she mumbles into Angela’s ear, the words slurring gently into each other.

“You did,” Angela tells her, biting her lip to hold back laughter as Fareeha sighs again and allows more of her weight to rest on Angela.

“I can go back to sleep then.”

Angela’s hesitating between telling her that she can so as not to let this moment end, or reminding her that she’ll sleep better and wake up happier if she doesn’t sleep on the couch, but she hasn’t made up her mind before Hana spots them.

“And a rousing five star review from the captain,” she teases, and Fareeha lifts her head up and points accusingly at Hana.

“Next time you could tell us that you don’t appear until the end,” she says through a yawn.

Hana only smirks at her. “And ruin the tension? Maybe the evil mastermind would’ve taken off her mask and… ta-da!” She strikes a pose, then wags a finger at Fareeha in return. “Not that you would’ve seen it.”

Fareeha settles back against the couch again. “I don’t need to see that to know you’re an evil mastermind.”

“Rude!” Hana gives them an over exaggerated pout, then flips her hair over her shoulder as she dramatically turns away, giving Angela a quick wink before stalking away.

It’s when Fareeha presses a kiss to her temple that Angela realizes how closely they’re still snuggled together, and how Hana hadn’t breathed a word about it. She’s always known that the young woman only pretends not to have tact, but it’s nice to have the confirmation anyway.

“I think we’ve been excused,” she says, pulling away reluctantly, glancing back to see Fareeha blinking at her owlishly. “And someone should sleep in a real bed.”

“Yeah,” Fareeha replies, glancing around the room and the rest of the group that’s slowly breaking up, small groups congregating about to continue talking while others slip away.

Angela stands first and Fareeha follows suit, stretching her arms over her head when she rises. When her arms fall back to her sides, Angela touches the back of Fareeha’s hand in question, smiling as Fareeha answers by linking their hands together.

They walk back to their rooms in silence, coming to Angela’s door first. And Fareeha turns back to her as Angela thinks about the warmth of her skin, and Fareeha smiles at her as Angela thinks about the calmness of her breath, and Fareeha kisses her while Angela thinks about the steady comfort of her heartbeat.

“Stay with me?” Angela murmurs into the space between them, without thinking about it at all.

Fareeha’s hand tightens on hers, just slightly. “I really was going back to bed,” she says carefully, and Angela nods.

“I know. Would you mind?”

Fareeha breathes a laugh and presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “As long as you don’t steal all the covers.”

“I can’t steal them,” Angela says as she leads Fareeha inside. “They’re mine.”

But for all that her own laughter mixes with Fareeha’s, the door falling closed behind them feels final, feels weighted. Feels a little too much like that familiar weight on her chest, and Angela looks to the bed and breathes, because she knows what she wants.

Arms wrap loosely around her waist, and Fareeha’s chin settles on her shoulder. “I didn’t think about what I’m wearing,” she murmurs quietly, and Angela can hear the tiredness creeping back into her voice. “Do you mind if I go change?”

Resting her hands on top of Fareeha’s, Angela leans back into her. “Only if you come back,” she says, her voice low and steady. She wonders if Fareeha is giving her an excuse to change her mind, is giving her space to change without witness, and she turns in her arms to kiss her soundly. “Please don’t fall asleep in there.”

“Come find me if I do,” Fareeha says as she pulls away, and when she slips out the door Angela stands there for a moment as the weight of the situation settles around her again. But she doesn’t need to breathe through it, because the thought that Fareeha’s coming back is soothing enough on it’s own.

-That Fareeha is coming back also makes her suddenly realize that she’s still just standing in the middle of the room, and she hastily changes into sleep shorts and a loose t-shirt. She’s trying to arrange her two pillows into two clear, distinct sides, but the bed simply isn’t wide enough to accommodate them side by side. Angela’s considering the set up when a knock at the door precedes Fareeha slipping back inside, dressed similarly to Angela.

As she glances to the bed, Fareeha runs her hand through her hair, a gesture that always means she’s thinking about something, and hesitates before looking back to Angela. “Would you mind if I take the outside?” she asks quietly, and Angela instantly knows that there’s a story behind that request.

But now is not the time to ask, as Fareeha covers another yawn. “Of course,” she answers instead, and Fareeha’s hand drops back to her side as she smiles. “Come on.”

Angela climbs into bed first, putting her back against the wall to watch Fareeha slide under the covers next to her and switch off the light, and even with them both trying to take up as little room as possible, there’s no way for them to avoid contact. Little brushes of their legs as they shift, or Angela bumping Fareeha’s shoulder as she tucks her arm under her head. It’s when Angela starts to hum a wordless apology that she suddenly realizes what they’re doing, and she lets herself relax, lets her body slump away from the wall and into Fareeha, giggling softly.

It takes no time at all for Fareeha’s arm to come around her, for her quiet laughter to once again thread through Angela’s own.

“Goodnight,” Fareeha says softly, her breath in Angela’s hair, her heartbeat against Angela’s cheek.

“Goodnight,” Angela says, and listens to Fareeha’s breath settle into that same slow, gentle rhythm.

And though she would’ve said she wasn’t tired, she falls asleep quickly.

—

Waking is a slower process, one inhibited by the warmth that fills her limbs and by the hand rubbing circles on her back. She opens her eyes slowly, meeting Fareeha’s, watching the smile that curls her lips widen. And she realizes that she’s laying more on Fareeha than next to her, but there’s a glint to Fareeha’s eyes that tell her she doesn’t mind at all. As does the low rumble of laughter that escapes her as Angela presses kisses to her neck and shoulder where the t-shirt’s fallen away. Until Fareeha gently guides her back, ignoring her half-hearted protest about morning breath, and kisses her soft and slow and gentle and perfect.

If they’re going to be doing this more often, she’ll need a bigger bed.

But for now, this will do.


	20. in that way be known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter rated mature for the last scene)
> 
> I got a lot of requests for an ace!Angela fic from Fareeha's POV, but this chapter wouldn't exist without patternedclouds, who did everything from bounce ideas and phrasing around with me to reading through the first version and giving me a lot of excellent feedback. If you like this chapter, please give her some love - she deserves it.

When Fareeha enters the room, she doesn’t say anything. Because all she can see at first is that Angela is at the desk, in front of the computer, her back to the door, and Fareeha doesn’t want to interrupt her work.

Because this is a compromise that they’ve made: if Angela feels compelled to work late (and the work doesn’t require the lab facilities), she brings it back to their quarters now. It lets her relax a bit more, lets her be mostly unbothered by people who hesitate to drop by their quarters for something work related but consider her presence in her office an open invitation no matter the hour.

And it’s a compromise that they both enjoy, and Fareeha knows that it will last only as long as Angela actually can accomplish things here, so she’s quiet as she steps inside and takes off her shoes, lining them up neatly by the door. When she steps a bit farther into the room, rounding the couch, she can see how Angela is seated cross-legged in front of the computer, which means, despite her concentration, whatever she’s working on is not vitally important or urgent.

(When it is, Angela always has perfect posture, as if the position of her body will inform the focus of her mind.)

Still, Fareeha smiles to herself only at first, retreating to their bedroom to empty her pockets and fetch her book. She returns to the main room to read, but also to keep Angela company, to be another presence in the room. Just before she sits, Angela sighs and rolls her neck, then turns to smile at Fareeha and greet her softly. So even though she turns back to the screen, though she continues to scroll through the words displayed, Fareeha knows she’s open to interruption.

After putting her book down, she slowly walks up behind Angela, keeping space between them but bending down slightly so she can keep her voice quiet. “Can I distract you?” Because she knows how Angela’s shoulders always tense when she’s stressed or tired, and that tension is there now.

Angela doesn’t look away from the screen, but her answer is immediate: “Yes.”

She rests her hands on Angela’s shoulders, with almost no pressure, and watches the way some of that tension seeps out of them already. So with that further confirmation that the distraction is truly welcome, she starts to work gentle circles at the base of Angela’s neck with her thumbs, working on the knots there.

And Angela sighs a little, pushes back into the touch some until Fareeha increases the pressure, but her eyes remain steady on the screen. At least until Fareeha switches tactics, running her thumbs up over the nape of Angela’s neck and the short hairs there into the only marginally longer hair of her undercut. And Angela goes more slack underneath her, lets her head fall forward to give Fareeha more room to move.

Chuckling, Fareeha leans down to kiss the back of Angela’s head, threading her fingers through more of Angela’s hair, scratching lightly at her scalp as Angela all but melts under her touch, the computer screen well and truly forgotten at this point.

Fareeha suppresses a smile. That might be a new record.

She knows that Angela sometimes worries about their relationship, or more accurately, about the way her being ace shapes it. She knows that Angela wants to make sure that Fareeha feels loved and cared for.

And honestly, moments like these, with Angela all but purring in front of her; Angela here, in their shared space, in reading glasses and pajamas which she would never wear in front of the others; Angela here because Fareeha had gently suggested it one day after waking Angela up in her office for the hundredth time…

Well, Fareeha wonders what more she could ask for.

It’s true that she desires Angela, that her thoughts occasionally drift in certain directions. It’s true that Angela pulls out her old witch costume for Halloween one year and upon first glimpse of her wearing it Fareeha feels heat spike through her stomach, nearly forgets how to breathe. And then Angela’s beaming up at her, unaware of the sudden fire she’s set loose, reminiscing about creating the costume and the ideas she’d tried and all the (sometimes not so friendly) competition at the old costume parties.

And still, Fareeha can’t help but smile at the fond tone in Angela’s voice, can’t help but be drawn into the stories by Angela’s enthusiasm. Can’t deny the fierce joy that swells in her chest as she watches how brightly Angela’s eyes shine with the memories. Wouldn’t ever want to deny it, or diminish it.

But she is distracted, and it’s not too long before Angela notices. She pauses, then glances down at her exposed cleavage and her legs, and when she looks back up there’s color riding high in her cheeks. Fareeha pays attention to the steadying breath she takes, to the shyness in her smile but the steadiness as she meets Fareeha’s eyes.

“Something to think about later?” Angela asks.

“Yeah,” Fareeha says, because they’ve talked about this, talked about Fareeha taking care of her own needs when she wants, about whether Angela is comfortable with Fareeha thinking about her in those moments. Because she’s never going to deny that she finds Angela attractive, or try to push away the desire, try to ignore that it exists. Even if she would never say anything that would make Angela uncomfortable, never touch her past her consent.

They’ve had a lot of conversations about trust and boundaries and respect. 

“But you were telling me about the werewolf incident,” Fareeha prompts, because even if there is a low insistence coiling through her limbs, she loves Angela’s passion, the way she throws everything she has into whatever’s captured her attention, no matter how big or small it is. Because she loves the quiver in her lips when she’s fighting back amusement in the middle of a story, trying not to laugh too early at the coming punchline.

“I’m not boring you?” Angela teases, and Fareeha reaches out and takes her hand, running her thumb over Angela’s knuckles.

“Never,” she says simply, and laughs to see how the flush travels further down Angela’s cheeks.

“Flirt,” Angela accuses.

Shrugging a shoulder, Fareeha presses a quick kiss to Angela’s hand, never dropping it even as Angela finally returns to the story.

—

Of course, in the beginning it wasn’t quite so smooth. It took patience and time to slowly learn how to read each other, how to tell the signs that let them communicate without words. One of those Fareeha had in abundance; the other she was more than happy to give. And so they start slow and so, so gentle, and Fareeha spends so much time watching Angela.

(Whenever Angela caught her, Fareeha teased her about the sunlight in her hair or the brilliance of her smile, and Angela’s flushed and stammering responses were reward enough on their own.)

But it let her see how Angela winced whenever she retreated, how she pulled back into herself. How her fingers fidgeted uncertainly whenever she was nearing her limit. Things that made Fareeha herself falter and hesitate - a feeling she’s always hated, especially around her loved ones.

A feeling she hated seeing in Angela as well.

So she came up with the system: ask if Angela wanted to continue. Let her say yes, or avoid saying the no that she dreaded, and make sure that Angela never feels pressured or compelled to continue past what she herself wants.

And so Fareeha asks a lot at the beginning. Even when she’s pretty sure of the answer, and every single time she isn’t.

Angela reciprocates by trying to take the lead more often, by being the one to pull Fareeha closer and deepen the kiss, by being the one who lets her hand fall to the hem of Fareeha’s shirt. And Angela begins to start asking Fareeha in return, “is this okay” or “do you want me to” and there are many times when Fareeha says yes, and there are many times when Fareeha puts her hands over Angela’s to still them. Sometimes she’s not sure if Angela is trying to push herself too far, but sometimes she just wants Angela to see that Fareeha doesn’t always need things to go further, that Angela isn’t somehow holding them back.

(Angela sees through that tactic quickly, but she never does anything less than take Fareeha at her word, than press a grateful kiss to a cheek or a palm.)

So they talk a lot more explicitly in the beginning, even when Angela struggles through the words, even when they’re trying to come up with the language on their own. And they’re always, always listening.

But over time (“with practice” Fareeha teases as Angela laughs), they learn each other. Fareeha especially, who has trained herself to notice the details, who has worked to be able to tell when a soldier is trying to conceal an injury or exhaustion. Learned from an early age to read between the lines, when Ana said she might not be home for a while, or when her own orders came down and she couldn’t understand.

Fareeha pays attention to Angela, to the way she sometimes starts to tense when things get more heated, in anticipation of the question, and Fareeha forces her own body to stay loose and relaxed, stepping away and smiling at the relief in Angela’s eyes. She sees the way Angela bites her lip when she’s thinking about something, worrying it when she’s anxious or holding it steady when she’s curious, and soothes her with forehead kisses or teases her further. Fareeha takes careful note of the crease in Angela’s forehead when she’s searching for the right words to explain how she feels, the lines around her eyes when she’s gathering the courage to say something. And they instill in her a calmness that feels ready for anything, lets her wait for Angela to speak without any impatience.

They never stop talking, not really. But slowly, they learn each other enough to talk without words. Which sometimes manifests in unexpected ways.

When they first started dating, they spent a lot of time in Angela’s rooms, because Fareeha by choice was close to the hangar, while Angela was closer to the med bay. And so Fareeha’s room is louder - something that she doesn’t mind, but does make it harder for Angela to sleep.

So some nights she goes over to Angela’s room and finds it empty, and while waiting for Angela she lays down on the couch. Because while they’re comfortable in each other’s space, while they’ll spend the night sleeping curled up with each other, she doesn’t want to intrude by being in Angela’s bed without her there. Even when Angela’s running very late.

More than once Fareeha’s fallen asleep, stretched out with her book on her chest or the screen playing something softly. And more than once she’s woken up with Angela crawling onto the couch next to her, tucking a blanket around them both. And they stay like that for a while, pressed up next to each other in the smaller space, talking quietly, before they move together to the bed. And some night she’s so tired, and Angela’s so late, that she’ll wake in the middle of the night to a familiar weight on her chest, the doctor passed out half on top of her, the blanket more casually pulled over them both.

On those nights, Fareeha does feel comfortable pulling Angela into her arms and moving them to the bed herself. And every morning after when they wake up, Angela’s looking up at her with sleepy, adoring blue eyes and her hair all out of place. Fareeha laughs and presses a kiss to her head, and Angela tries to convince her to stay in bed for just a little while longer, and it quickly becomes Fareeha’s favorite sort of morning.

So the couch becomes a kind of signal. A way for Fareeha to invite those quiet, close moments without asking for them (though she knows she could). She finds that when she lays on the couch, back against the arm and legs spread over the cushions, Angela will come join her, though she’ll pause and ask, “Is this okay?”

And it always is.

Even that one time when Fareeha’s got a bowl of apricot ice cream that Ana had brought back from a mission with Mei’s help. Angela curls up with her back pressed to Fareeha’s chest, and Fareeha teasingly brings the next spoonful of ice cream to Angela’s lips.

Angela, though she reaches one hand up, doesn’t take the spoon. She presses her fingertips gently to Fareeha’s wrist, holding her in place by indication alone, and takes the bite herself. She hums her pleasure, and Fareeha can’t help but laugh in response. Because she’s cuddling her girlfriend, the often serious, very capable, definite genius who’s comfortable enough to let Fareeha feed her ice cream, who over exaggerates her reaction because Fareeha can’t see her expression, who sighs in contentment as she rests her head against Fareeha’s shoulder.

Who keeps silently eyeing the rest of the ice cream as Fareeha eats, and who raises her hand again and traps Fareeha’s arm so she can steal another bite.

Fareeha lets her, though she lets out her own theatrical note of betrayal, and Angela covers her mouth with her fingers, obviously trying not to choke on the combination of ice cream and laughter.

She notices that Angela left the last bite for her, but she still leans forward and nips at Angela’s earlobe with her teeth, feeling Angela gasp slightly at the cool temperature of her lips and tongue. But as they settle back together, laughing equally, the feeling in her chest is decidedly warm.

—

It honestly still amazes Fareeha, how much they’ve come to learn each other. It’s quiet and often understated; it’s soft and welcoming.

It’s loving. It’s intimate.

It’s the best thing she’s found in a long time.

When she was younger, she felt similarly about sex. It certainly felt that way, the first few times. Exploring someone else’s body with eyes and hands and lips, drawing their breath from them in heated gasps and muted whimpers. Watching them shudder through orgasm because of what she did, how she made them feel. Learning someone like that, knowing someone like that.

Well, it made her grin, made her chest and heart swell as she dragged fingers over newly sensitive skin. Made her feel powerful with every shout or curse she coaxed from her partner. Made her feel desired whenever she was pulled down closer, harder, held tighter against a body straining for hers.

Her own climax, leaving her trembling and sweat-streaked, made her feel every inch of her skin and exactly how she filled it. Made everything else fade into nothing, made the universe into nothing more than the space that she was in. Made her room a world, her couch an island, her kitchen floor a grotto.

It made her want more.

But she also started to learn that sex was just one way to show all of those things. That intimacy was sometimes coming home tired and sore and having someone else help her into the shower with gentle hands, a towel and quiet smile waiting for afterward. Sometimes love was Fareeha sneaking back early to make dinner, with the table set and music playing in the background.

Sometimes it was just about whom she came home to, and who came home to her.

Fareeha was dating someone - had been, for several months - when Ana’s letter came. And Fareeha had withdrawn after that, because suddenly her mother, whom she had mourned, whom she’d thought she’d been moving on from, had barged her way back into Fareeha’s life, had thrust this huge secret into her lap without even giving her a chance to talk.

Anger and betrayal had felt like very small words for what boiled in her chest.

She’d accepted Ana sacrificing herself in the line of duty. Had been able to understand it.

But not this. Not her mother abandoning her - abandoning everyone and everything. For her mother to hurt them all like that was simply beyond comprehension.

And because her mother’s lie was a secret, Fareeha couldn’t talk about it.

She’d spent a lot more time away from home, then, trying to curb the restless feeling in her with long drives, trying to sweat out the anger with even longer sessions at the gym.

Trying to cope with the realization that maybe she didn’t know her mother that well after all.

And Fareeha had known that she was neglecting other parts of her life, had recognized the growing tension at home. But she didn’t know how to explain, or how to make it better.

Until it had culminated one evening with her dragging herself home and opening the door to find the lights all still on, tired eyes watching her from the sofa and nervous fingers plucking at a loose thread of a sleeve. And a quiet, too-timid voice asking if Fareeha was cheating.

And in that moment she’d reacted with horror and anger, equal parts wondering just how she’d ever let it get this bad and wondering how anyone could ever even think that of her.

How her girlfriend could just not know her that well.

And, maybe, how Fareeha had not known her very well either.

It had been a hard lesson to learn. About communication, even when it was about the most difficult of things. About trust, even in the worst of times.

About loving someone.

—

So Fareeha never feels like her relationship with Angela is missing anything. Never feels like it lacks something. They can share physical affection without it ever approaching the question of whether or not to continue, have it stay far away from anything even approaching Angela’s limits. Angela’s requests for Fareeha to touch her are never misunderstood, never taken as invitations to anything past that.

And Fareeha is genuinely glad for those moments. For all the things that Angela wants to explore or try with her. It’s something in the end that they both enjoy, with each other, and Angela slowly relaxes out of her own fear that she’s somehow leading Fareeha on, that she’s somehow being insensitive to Fareeha’s own needs by asking for only so much.

Angela tells her sometimes how she feels happy and cared for and content, and Fareeha can honestly tell her she feels the same.

It leads to moments like this one: Fareeha lying on her back in their bed, Angela on her hands and knees above her. They’re topless, just enjoying the feeling of skin against skin as they kiss, Fareeha’s hands steadying Angela’s waist as she leans down. Her thumbs gently brush across her sides, but Angela just smiles against her lips before deepening the kiss. When she pulls back a little, Fareeha’s searching her expression for any signs that she might be done, but Angela’s laughing and alight, and Fareeha can’t help the way desire has settled into the base of her stomach and threads through her limbs.

She might have to call time out for herself soon, but she doesn’t want to just yet.

At least, until Angela shifts forwards to press a kiss to Fareeha’s forehead, and her knee presses in between Fareeha’s legs. And Fareeha definitely can’t stop her breath from hitching or the instinctive buck of her hips.

They both freeze, though Angela moves her leg back immediately, and they look at each other, Fareeha watching the new hesitation in her stance, the tension creeping back into her shoulders, the worry in her eyes as she chews her lower lip.

And, suddenly, realizes that Angela is worrying about her in much the same way she’s worrying about Angela, and she relaxes with a small laugh. “Time out,” she says quietly, the laughter lingering, as she takes her hands away from Angela’s hips and holds them out in a peacekeeping gesture.

They’re quiet for another moment, as Angela raises herself up to give Fareeha a little more space. “I overdid it,” she says, contrite.

“No,” Fareeha reassures her.

But then Angela’s biting her lip again, deeper, steady. There’s something brighter in her eyes this time, something curious and searching in her gaze.

Fareeha recognizes that look now.

Recognizes too the way that Angela’s leaning forward with furrowed brow, realizes that she’s searching for the words again. So Fareeha waits quietly, tucking some of Angela’s hair back just to make her smile.

“Do you want to… take care of it?” Angela finally asks.

Which makes it Fareeha’s turn to hesitate as she considers her answer. She would like to, but she doesn’t want to make Angela feel like she did anything wrong, and she definitely doesn’t want Angela to feel like Fareeha considers it more important than this time together. All of this flashes through her mind in a moment, and she’s still considering her answer when Angela blurts out, “Can I hold you?”

“Yes,” Fareeha answers, but Angela shakes her head, and Fareeha can tell her impatience is only with herself.

“I meant- during. Can I hold you while you get off?”

That thin thread of heat comes roaring to life, and Fareeha tries not to shudder over the thought. “You want to?” she asks instead, wanting to confirm.

“Please?” Angela responds, and Fareeha can’t resist the softness to her tone that’s mirrored in her eyes.

She taps Angela’s arm, and when she lifts it, Fareeha rolls onto her side as Angela settles down behind her, her breasts pressing softly into Fareeha’s shoulders. She waits for Angela to put an arm around her, to snuggle up to her, to press a kiss to the back of her neck, in a spot that always makes her shiver.

“Am I in your way?”

“No,” Fareeha reassures her. “You’re perfect.”

Angela laughs shortly and kisses her shoulder. “That would be you.”

Unbuttoning her jeans with one hand, Fareeha hesitates, wanting to ask Angela again if she’s okay with this, wanting to make sure she knows she can change her mind. But Angela asked, and Angela is nuzzling into her neck, and Angela is slipping her fingers just under Fareeha’s waistband to caress her hip. And Fareeha is trying not to always ask too much, to seem like she’s doubting Angela’s decisions.

She has to trust Angela just as much as Angela has to trust her.

So she pushes down the zipper next, giving herself just enough space to slide her fingers between her legs, sighing softly at her own gentle touch, keenly aware of the warmth at her back. She wants to go slow, both to draw out this moment and savor it longer, and to give Angela plenty of time to learn if she likes this or not.

Judging by the way Angela moves closer, her hips pressing against Fareeha’s, nails lightly scratching across Fareeha’s skin, it’s not an issue yet.

And the thing is, Fareeha knows herself, knows what she likes. Knows where to put pressure, and how much, and when, to make her heartbeat thunder in her ears and fire race through her limbs. So even as she does, even as her breathing turns heavy and she turns her face more into the pillow, she’s so very aware of the woman behind her.

Not just because it’s different. Not just because Angela is pressing kisses against her neck and murmuring to her repeatedly, “I love you. I love you so much.” But because her tone is so, so tender, so genuinely affectionate, that it makes Fareeha shiver almost more than her own fingers.

Not just because Angela is tracing patterns on her skin, the same way she always asks Fareeha to do so. Not just because her own increasingly sensitive skin reacts more and more to the featherlight touch. But because Angela is showing her intimacy in the way she likes best, the way she desires most, and that only adds more fervor to the fire burning within her.

Not just because she feels Angela push herself up slightly as her hand glides up Fareeha’s side. “May I-?” she asks quietly, more hesitantly than anything she’s done so far, and Fareeha pauses, trying to catch her breath so she can answer in more than a nod. Not just because Angela takes the nod as enough and glides her hand down Fareeha’s arm, coming to rest on her wrist, her fingertips on the delicate bones of Fareeha’s hand. Not just because Angela leans down to kiss her, confident again, pulling back with hopeful eyes and asking, “Okay?”

But because, when Fareeha first shifts, when Fareeha’s fingers first resume, she realizes that Angela can feel every motion of her hand and wrist. That Angela is learning what Fareeha’s doing, what she likes, by feeling each movement and twist. Because Angela cares about that, because Angela wants to know that, even if she might never actually use it herself.

Because Angela wants to learn her, and know her, just like Fareeha wants to with Angela.

It’s that knowledge, that very tangible proof of it, more than just the gentle weight of Angela’s hand over her own, that makes Fareeha shudder apart in her lover’s embrace with one final bit of pressure in just the spot she needs.

And Fareeha is used to so many of these things: the smell of the gentle detergent that Angela likes, the feeling of the sheets against her skin, the way Angela likes to meld herself to Fareeha’s back and Angela’s breath soft and steady against her. The familiar afterglow that suffuses her limbs, making them warm and heavy, the prickling sensitivity of touch as she shifts.

She’s just not used to having them together, to having Angela’s hand slowly retract just to lie over her side before restlessly dancing across skin until Fareeha halts her with gentle fingers over hers.

“Angela, please,” she laughs breathlessly, and she can feel the way Angela’s own breath hitches in realization.

“Sorry,” she says, voice muffled against Fareeha’s shoulder, though she doesn’t move to take her hand away, and the warmth in Fareeha’s chest has nothing to do with the afterglow.

Carefully, she rolls onto her other side, looking into Angela’s eyes, seeing them warm, seeing them soft, seeing them loving.

This is the thing about learning Angela, Fareeha’s found. Even when Angela struggles with the words, she shows how she feels in so many other ways that Fareeha never minds the wait, never misses the point. Never feels anything less than absolutely cared for, and thought of, and wanted.

She reaches out, brushing her fingers over Angela’s hair, before gently pulling her closer, their noses brushing as Angela giggles at the touch. “I love you,” she says. “Thank you.” And the words feel too small for the gratitude and the admiration and the joy in her. “No one could love me better.”

When Angela’s eyes close, when she presses herself forward into Fareeha, burying her face in her neck, Fareeha understands without words. Because this is their home.

And she couldn’t desire anything more than this.


	21. mistletoe patrol

Surveying all the lighthearted chaos in the room, Angela shakes her head in fond exasperation at her fellow members of Overwatch. When Mei had suggested reviving the old holiday slash end of year party - the date had always shifted based off of when the world was least in danger - it had been met with more moderate enthusiasm than what is currently on display.

“What would such a a party entail?” Zenyatta had wondered.

Mei had clapped her hands together. “Oh, it was wonderful! We’d have screens up all over the watchpoints, so you could hear all the noise and conversation from all over the world. You could talk to anyone, if you could only get them near to a screen at the same time,” she’d added with a giggle. “I always made sure to have a camera pointed outside, so everyone could have a screen full of snow, no matter where they were stationed!”

“And the food,” Lena had said dreamily, propping her chin on one hand.

Jesse had laughed. “Plenty of food, plenty of drink. And everyone toasting to ‘hell yeah, we survived another year!’”

Even Genji had chuckled. “I’m surprised you remember some of those parties,” he’d teased, and chatter had broken out over Jesse’s sounds of fake indignation.

It’d been a simple decision after that.

This party _is_ smaller than the ones from years past, but at least everyone is here, crowding into a few rooms of the Watchpoint, no screens needed to connect to a group out on a mission. What more could she ask for, than to have her friends here, safe and sound?

“Fareeha, wait!” she hears Hana call out, and the soldier pauses in the doorway to the kitchen, a steaming mug clasped carefully in one hand as she glances down toward her feet, checking to see if she’s about to trip over something.

And Hana laughs and points above Fareeha, and Angela follows her finger and Fareeha’s own gaze to the small spray of green sloppily tacked to the top of the doorway. She’s not sure whether to join in on the laughter or sigh: she had removed - well, asked Fareeha to remove, as the soldier could reach more easily - the mistletoe already, rehanging it in the corner-

Yet, as she looks over to that side of the room, she can clearly see where that piece is still neatly over the window, in a spot more deliberate, for those who wanted an excuse to kiss, instead of a place where they could be ambushed.

Fareeha apparently thought along similar lines, because Angela’s attention returns at her amused, “Another one, Hana?”

“We got _loads_ ,” the younger woman assures her brightly. “They were practically giving it away.”

“Good then,” Fareeha says, reaching up to snag the mistletoe. “I can move this one too.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Hana puts her hands out pleadingly. “Think of it strategically, Captain! Everyone goes through that door. You just have to wait there until the person you want is in the door and- ta-da!”

Fareeha’s eyes slide briefly to Angela’s, and Angela bites the inside of her cheek to hide a smile.

But Fareeha pulls down the mistletoe anyway before looking to Hana. “I still think I’ll move this one to a place for those willing.”

Angela walks farther into the room as Hana decides that her case for the doorway is lost, and the two begin to discuss better spots for the greenery with all the solemn seriousness of genuine mission planning.

That’s how the evening has gone between her and Fareeha so far: both aware of the other’s presence, the occasional exchanged look or smile, but very few words. It’s a type of teasing, Angela thinks, the quiet not-quite-acknowledgement that still leaves her hyper aware of where her- girlfriend? - is in the room.

She’s not sure that they’re technically girlfriends, whether or not they’re dating at all. But it’s a good enough term to use in her head (for now, at least) to describe how she feels about Fareeha, how she thinks Fareeha feels about her.

Because missions and training sessions have given way to seeking each other during the evenings, and spending time together that has nothing to do with Overwatch and everything to do with each other. Spending time together has led to more teasing and flirting and, recently, several kisses goodnight.

And a few nights that involved a lot more kissing before the good nights were exchanged.

So girlfriend, yes. Because it _is_ a good word to use for a woman who stops her in the middle of the hallway and drops a quiet little _I can’t wait to kiss you, Dr. Ziegler_ in her ear, leaving a delightful frisson of anticipation crawling through her.

(“I’ve been distracted all day,” she’d complained to Fareeha later that night, moving toward her.

“And why would that be?” Fareeha had teased, watching her approach with a smirk.

And Angela had sighed, had draped her arms dramatically around Fareeha’s shoulders and had slumped into her. “There’s a new study I want to read and the journal was supposed to come out this morning but got delayed until an hour ago,” she’d complained.

Fareeha’s laughter had made the wait worth it.)

So Angela’s aware of Fareeha as they circulate with their friends, as they take turns catching Hana and Lena and Sombra putting up more mistletoe that they continue to move to more secluded locations. Aware of her as she listens to one of Reinhardt’s stories, respect and admiration still clear in her eyes even from across the room. Aware of Fareeha’s own sideways looks in her direction as Angela chats with Torbjörn about his family.

“You know,” he says suddenly, his attention never wavering from Angela. “I think young Fareeha over there is interested in you.”

Angela can’t suppress the smile fast enough, though at least she manages not to glance back in Fareeha’s direction, wondering what she must look like that even Torbjörn’s noticed. “Is that so?” she says mildly, but the old man is watching her carefully before humphing into his beard.

“Well, she’s a good enough sort,” he grumbles, then raises his voice. “Even if the Amaris are trouble.”

“I heard that,” Ana counters from behind Angela, and Torbjörn laughs.

“Ay, I meant you to!”

The two old friends grin at each other, and Angela realizes suddenly that Ana - even if she didn’t hear what had come before - probably knows exactly what’s going on between her and Fareeha.

But Ana only smiles at her. “Enjoying your evening so far?”

And maybe it’s the party atmosphere and the champagne, or the easy warmth of Torbjörn’s almost paternal affection. Maybe it’s the familiar twinkle in Ana’s eye that Angela’s seen so much in Fareeha’s. Because she doesn’t even think about before she tilts her head to the side and says, “So far.”

Immediately she doubts herself, wishes the words back, but she hears Fareeha cough loudly into her hand like she’s covering a laugh, and Ana heads for her daughter with a tsk. But not before glancing back at Angela and dropping her eye in a wink.

The rest of the evening passes without incident, and by the time the party is winding down Angela swears she can almost hear the birds outside. Everyone mutually agrees to leave most of the cleanup for later, after everyone has a chance to sleep. But everyone does something before heading for bed, putting away the food or pushing chairs haphazardly back into position.

And when Angela puts away the last of the food, the only other person left is Fareeha, waiting in the doorway to the common room, watching Angela with a small smile.

“Can I get your help with one last thing?” she asks, and Angela nods and heads over as Fareeha steps aside to let her through-

Except that she stops her in the doorway and raises her hand, revealing one last piece of mistletoe tucked into her palm. “Where should I put this?” she asks, teeth flashing in a grin, confident and pleased with herself as it sticks (a little precariously, from all the movement around the rooms) to the doorframe above Angela’s head.

“I think there looks good,” Angela answers, a joy racing through her that she’s quickly starting to recognize.

Fareeha leans down, her arm against the side of the doorway to steady herself as Angela’s hands find the collar of Fareeha’s shirt. “Willing?” she breathes against Angela’s lips, holding herself up just that far.

“Very,” Angela tells her, and pulls her down the rest of the way.


End file.
